


The Wedding

by pkmoonshine



Series: Bloodlines [3]
Category: Bonanza
Genre: Alternate Reality, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 103,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pkmoonshine/pseuds/pkmoonshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam Cartwright and his wife, Teresa, come to Virginia City to spend the summer with the family, and so that he might stand up for an old friend as best man in what’s shaping up to be “The Wedding Of The Century.”   Meanwhile, Roy Coffee has his hands full trying to put a couple of bootleggers out of business and stop an elusive thief in his tracks.</p><p>"The Wedding" is the third story in the "Bloodlines" series, and includes the addition of two non-cannon characters.</p><p>All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are property of their respective owners.  The original characters and plot are property of the author.   The author is not in any way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise, and makes no money from this work.     No copyright infringement is intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ben Cartwright sat in the office of his lawyer, Lucas Milburn, carefully reading over the three-page document in his hands. Though he generally had no trouble deciphering the intricate and often enigmatic wording of legal documents, the process was nonetheless time consuming. “Everything seems to be in order, Lucas,” he said finally.

“Any questions, Ben?”

“A request, actually,” Ben replied. “I’d like you to go over what the final document says . . . for Stacy’s benefit, and for my own as well.”

“Certainly,” Lucas replied. “The first paragraph of the document declares Stacy’s intention to set aside her maternal grandmother’s will in favor of her aunt, Virginia McKenna, and cousins, Claire and Erin McKenna, if the conditions, spelled out in the remaining body of the document, are met,” the lawyer began. “Stacy . . . . ” he turned and gave his full attention to the tall, slender young woman seated next to her father, “ . . . you had originally asked that the money be allotted equally into four different accounts: trust funds for Claire and Erin McKenna, a fund for Virginia McKenna, and, I believe your exact words were, a fund with money set aside for a rainy day.”

“That’s right,” Stacy said.

“Major Sinclair’s lawyer, a Mister . . . . ” Lucas paused for a moment to glance at his notes, “ . . . Barnabas J. Kranston . . . sent me a letter stating that the his client requested that the money from your grandmother’s estate be divided equally into trust funds for Claire and Erin McKenna instead. The money in those funds will be turned over to them upon reaching the age of twenty-five, as we had originally stipulated.”

“I know that Major Sinclair . . . Aunt Virginia’s father . . . also said that he’s able and willing to provide for my aunt and my cousins, too . . . leastwise until they get married or turn twenty-five,” Stacy said, remembering the last letter her father had received from the major, informing them that . . . .

 _“ . . . despite all of our valiant attempts to the contrary, our daughter, Virginia, for all intents and purposes, has slipped irrevocably from the real world around us into a world of her own making.”_

Aunt Virginia’s father had gone on to say that in this “world of her own making,” she was a young girl again, caught in the midst of a whirlwind courtship with one John McKenna, upper class cadet, the man she had married thirteen years ago, six months before the birth of their eldest daughter, Claire. Though Aunt Virginia recognized her mother and father, she had no memory or recollection of her daughters. Both, within the boundaries of her increasingly fragile mind, had become any one of a number of visiting relations.

 __

“ . . . and I’ll betcha anything John McKenna really IS ‘the kindest, most gentle and loving man ever,’ in that make believe world of Aunt Virginia’s,” Stacy had wryly observed, giving voice to the bewilderment and anger she still harbored towards her aunt.

 _“Leastwise, she’s happy,” Hoss said, his voice filled with sadness. “After how ever many years it’s been, sufferin’ as she did at the hands of that husband o’ hers . . . she deserves t’ know some kinda happiness. I only wish she could’ve found it with her ma and pa . . . and with her daughters.”_

 _“Claire and Erin are the ones I feel sorry for,” Joe said, “especially Erin. John and Virginia McKenna were pretty lousy as parents, but Erin loved ‘em. Now don’t get me wrong . . . I’m not sorry Sheriff Coffee ended up having to kill John McKenna, but I AM sorry Erin had to be there to see it. Now, with her mother as good as being dead--- ”_

 _Ben reached out and placed a comforting hand on Joe’s forearm, and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “No, Son,” he said quietly with a bare hint of a smile tugging hard at the corner of his mouth. “Erin HASN’T lost her mother.”_

 _“What do you mean by that, Pa?” Stacy asked._

 _“You said it yourself at Ponderosa Plunge the day before your aunt and cousins left,” Ben replied. “Virginia McKenna may have been the woman who brought Erin into the world and gave her life, but she ISN’T her REAL mother, and . . . I strongly suspect . . . hasn’t been for quite some time.”_

 _“Who IS Erin’s real mother?” Joe asked._

 _“Claire,” Stacy replied, answering her brother’s question._

 _“Claire?!” Joe echoed, incredulous._

 _Ben nodded. “From what I could see, Claire’s the one who protected Erin . . . who held her close when she was afraid . . . who dried her tears when she cried . . . . ”_

 _“Looks like The Kid’s right,” Joe murmured softly, his eyes round with amazement. “Claire IS Erin’s real mother . . . . ”_

 

“Mister Milburn . . . this might sound terrible, but I’ve gotta ask, what with Aunt Virginia not being able to look after herself or her daughters, ‘n all,” Stacy said. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “What will happen to my aunt and cousins after Major Sinclair and his wife BOTH die . . . especially if they die before Claire and Erin turn twenty-five?”

“That’s not a terrible question at all, Stacy,” Lucas hastened to assure the girl. “In fact, I think it’s a very good question. Mister Kranston, in his letter, also assured me that the Sinclairs have made ample and generous provision for your aunt’s care, and for your cousins’ as well, if they should die before the girls married or turned twenty-five.”

“Thank you, Mister Milburn. I had to know.”

“Your cousins’ trust funds will be overseen jointly by your father’s accountant, Mister Jonas Sinclair . . . no relation to your aunt’s family, of course . . . of Sinclair Accounting Firm Limited here in Virginia City; and the accounting firm of Smith, Smithfield, and West, presumably the major’s accounting firm, in Westpoint, New York,” Lucas concluded his summary of the document still in Ben’s hands. “Does everything meet with your approval?”

“Yes, it does,” Stacy replied. “Thank you.”

Ben turned and glanced over at his daughter, Stacy. “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?” he asked. “You’re not in any way obligated, I want you to know that.”

“You’re not telling me I should change my mind . . . are you, Pa?” Stacy asked.

“Not at all,” Ben shook his head. “I meant it when I said the decision is yours.”

“Then, I’m sure I want to go ahead,” she replied.

Lucas took the document back from Ben and placed it on his desk facing Stacy. “In that case, all that remains is for you to sign right here, Stacy, and for you, Ben, to sign on the line below as her parent and legal guardian.” He dipped the pen into a jar of ink and handed it to Stacy.

Stacy signed her name on the dotted line indicated, then handed the pen to her father. Lucas pushed the jar of ink across the desk in Ben’s general direction. Ben dipped the pen into the ink and signed directly below his daughter’s name.

Stacy exhaled an audible sigh of relief. The monetary legacy left her by her maternal grandmother was, finally, signed over to her cousins, Claire and Erin, lock, stock, and barrel.

Ben looked over at Stacy and smiled. “Now I can tell you that I’m very proud of you,” he said sincerely. “That was a very generous gift on your part.”

“Thanks, Pa,” she said, blushing, “but, I . . . don’t know about being generous. The truth is . . . MY future’s pretty secure. I’ve got you, Hoss, Joe, and Hop Sing to look after me . . . and when you adopted me, you promised me that I would someday inherit a fair share of the Ponderosa, too. You ALSO promised that won’t happen for a very long time.”

Ben smiled. “Indeed, I did . . . and I have every intention of following through on THAT promise, too, Young Woman.”

“You’d better,” Stacy replied. “Anyway . . . I guess it all boils down to the fact that I don’t need my grandmother’s money to make my future secure, but my cousins DO, and . . . and after all the hardship they had to endure when their father . . . . ” she grimaced as if she had just bitten into something with an incredibly foul taste, “ . . . I want to make sure Claire and Erin have something to secure their future.”

“That’s WHY I’m very proud of you,” Ben said. “If more people had of your kind of insight when it comes to money, and less greed, this world would be a lot better place.”

“MY job would be a lot easier, too,” Lucas said with a smile. “Now we have one last piece of business to take care of.” He collected the pages of the first document, and placed a single page on the desk in front of Stacy. “Just like before, Stacy, you sign there on the top line, Ben, you sign right below.”

Stacy took the pen and, this time, signed her name with a flourish. She, as before, handed the pen to her father. Ben quickly signed his name and handed the pen back to the lawyer.

“It’s now official, Stacy ROSE Cartwright,” Lucas declared with a smile.

“Thank you, Mister Milburn,” Stacy smiled back and shook his hand, “and thank YOU, Pa.”

“You’re welcome,” Ben said. His eyes moved to the wall clock hanging directly behind Lucas Milburn’s desk. The time was a few minutes before noon. “Come on, Stacy, we need to get going, if we’re going to meet that stage on time.”

“The stage!” Stacy yelped, as she shot right out of her chair. “I almost forgot!”

“Ben . . . Stacy . . . . ” Lucas said with a broad grin, as he also rose and walked with them to the door, “please give Adam my regards?”

“We will, Mister Milburn,” Stacy promised . . . .

 

“Stacy, I see a potential problem as a result of your name change,” Ben observed, as they made their way from the lawyer’s office to the stage depot.

“Oh yeah?! What’s that, Pa?”

“Joe derived so much pleasure teasing you about your old middle name. What’s the poor guy gonna do now?”

Stacy laughed out loud. “Oh, don’t worry about Grandpa, Pa,” she said. “He’ll find something else to take the place of . . . Loo-weese . . . .” she pronounced her once and former much loathed middle name doing a comic impersonation of her third brother, “ . . . if he hasn’t already. I’m as sure of that as I am sure the sun’s gonna rise again tomorrow morning.”

“Grandpa?” Ben queried, favoring his daughter with a quizzical glance.

“Yeah. Joe’s been laying it on a kinda thick lately about my terrible lack of respect for my elders, whenever I tease him,” Stacy explained, “so I started calling him Grandpa.”

“KINDA thick?” Ben queried, mildly surprised.

“Ok, Pa, he’s been laying it on REAL thick,” Stacy admitted with a smile.

“I know that brother of yours all too well,” Ben laughed.

Stacy laughed, too.

Most of the time, Ben enjoyed listening to the teasing banter between his two younger children. Joe had been an incorrigible, almost compulsive tease, from the time he had learned to talk. Now, in his sister, Stacy . . . .

 _“ . . . it would seem that my youngest brother FINALLY gets his comeuppance,” Adam wrote a short time after he and his two younger sons had brought her home from Fort Charlotte. It was clear that his eldest was absolutely delighted at the prospect . . . ._

“ ‘Morning, Ben. ‘Morning, Stacy,” Roy Coffee greeted his friends with a warm smile.

“ ‘Morning, Sheriff Coffee,” Stacy returned the greeting and the smile.

“It’s almost afternoon, Roy,” Ben said by way of greeting.

“So when do Adam and his wife arrive in town?” Roy asked falling in step with the Cartwrights.

“Noon stage today,” Ben said with a broad grin. He had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of his eldest son and daughter-in-law for the better part of the last four weeks.

“The kids comin’ too?”

“Later, with Teresa’s mother after school lets out for the summer,” Ben replied.

“That’s wonderful,” Roy said with all sincerity. Ben and Stacy seemed to be doing very well following the tragedy that had recently befallen the Cartwright Family, those two in particular. He was especially gratified to see the close camaraderie restored between father and daughter, and hear them just now laughing together with genuine mirth. The arrival of Adam and his family should prove to be an additional welcome tonic.

A woman’s scream from the general store up ahead rudely shattered Roy Coffee’s musings. An audible, exasperated sigh exploded from the lawman’s lips, thinning with anger. “Aw fer--- Here we go again,” he grumbled, with a sarcastic roll his eyes heavenward.

“Again?” Ben echoed, a puzzled frown knotting his brow.

“There’s been a whole long string o’ robberies goin’ on for the last couple o’ months now,” Roy explained. “So far, it’s been small stuff . . . shopliftin’, purse snatchin’, pickin’ pockets . . . things like that. It’s a nuisance, more ‘n anything else.”

“Any idea who’s behind it?” Ben asked.

“None,” Roy shook his head. “Whoever’s doin’ it moves in and out so quick, no one’s been able t’ catch sight of ‘im long enough t’ gimme any kind of useful information. One o’ these days, though, he’s gonna get too cocky and slip up. Then, I’ll have ‘im behind bars. I just hope t’ heaven it’s sooner, not later.”

“I hope so, too, Roy,” Ben said, voicing his own wholehearted agreement.

“Well,” he sighed, “ ‘til then, duty calls. Do me a favor ‘n tell Adam I said hello?”

“Sure will, Roy,” Ben promised. “See you later.”

 

“You two are just in the nick time,” Joe greeted his father and sister with an affable grin. “The stage is coming up the street now.”

“What was the hold up, Pa?” Hoss asked.

“Stacy and I ran into Sheriff Coffee and talked with him for a few minutes,” Ben said. “But most of the hold up was from trying to make sense of legal documents.” He shook his head. “Strange the way plain ol’ every day words turn into a foreign language when a lawyer puts them down on paper . . . . ”

“So the name change is now official, eh, Miss Stacy Rose-with-plenty-of-thorns Cartwright?” Joe quipped, with an impish grin.

Stacy laughed out loud. “Y’ see, Pa? Didn’t I tell ya?”

“Am I missing out on something here?” Joe demanded, not grasping the punch line his father and sister found so amusing.

“Just your mind, Grandpa,” Stacy retorted, “advanced senility will do that to you.”

“Senility?” Joe echoed, looking comically incredulous. “Senility?! Look, Kiddo, I wasn’t the one who forgot to--- ”

“That WASN’T my fault!”

“Will you two knock it off?” Hoss admonished his younger siblings. “The stage is almost here.”

“Aww, come on, Hoss . . . ease up, willya?!” Joe groaned. “What . . . I ask you . . . WHAT . . . is this world coming to when a good lookin’ young man and his sister can’t have a nice, civilized--- ”

“Civilized?!” Hoss queried, incredulous. “Civilized?” He shook his head, chuckling softly. “If you two think your discussions are nice ‘n civilized . . . I don’t ever wanna see your idea of a knock-down-drag-out, down in the mud rollin’ around, free-for all!”

“ . . . and what’s THAT supposed to mean?!” Joe demanded, favoring his big brother with the meanest, nastiest glare he could possibly summon.

“It means exactly that,” Hoss returned.

“Name one time one of our civilized discussions ended up in a knock-down-drag-out, down in the mud rollin’ around, free-for all,” Stacy challenged.

“How ‘bout when you ‘n Joe got into that, ummm discussion!? . . . about how far you’re supposed t’ put your pinkie finger when you’re drinkin’ at a big high society do, with Candy ‘n Mitch while we were movin’ the cattle out to the winter pastures last fall,” Hoss responded without missing a beat.

“So Stacy and I got a little muddy,” Joe shrugged.

“Make that VERY muddy, Baby Brother,” Hoss said, “and for the record, that was you, Stacy, Candy, Mitch, and a couple of the others.”

“You exaggerate, Big Brother,” Joe accused.

“Yeah!” Stacy declared with an emphatic nod of her head. “What Joe said!”

 

Ben turned and watched the approaching stage, bearing Adam and his Mexican born wife, Teresa, with happy anticipation. Adam, Teresa, and their two children Benjamin Eduardo, a.k.a. Benjy, and Dolores Elizabeth, Dio for short, had originally planned to come spend the summer at the Ponderosa. When Adam was asked to be best man for Matthew Wilson, his oldest and best friend, he and his wife decided to come earlier for the wedding.

The stage drew up to the depot, and stopped. The door opened. Adam stepped out first, followed by a tall, handsome man clad in a pair of dark blue slacks and a gray cotton turtle neck sweater. He had a full head of thick, wavy black hair, a broad chest and shoulders, well muscled, that tapered to a trim waist and washboard flat stomach. He gallantly held the stagecoach door while Adam turned and helped his wife step down.

Teresa di Cordova Cartwright was built along the lines of a classical Greek Goddess according to her husband. Her generous bosom flowed into a trim waist and marvelously rounded hips, tastefully shown to full advantage by the custom tailored jacket and full skirt of the traveling suit she wore. Its deep red hue stunningly complimented her raven black hair, her dark eyes, and healthy ruddy complexion.

“Adam, it’s so good to see you.” Ben, smiling broadly, immediately seized his oldest in a great big bear hug.

“Good seeing you, too, Pa,” Adam smiled, and hugged back with equal strength.

Father and son held on to each other for a time. “Well, Son, I can’t say you’re looking too thin,” Ben teased, when at last they parted.

“Teresa’s an excellent cook, Pa, you KNOW that,” Adam said, as they disengaged, “and she makes a point of keeping me well fed. Now, to change the subject . . . where’s this sister of mine I’ve heard so much about?”

“Stacy?”

“Right here, Pa.”

Ben gently took Stacy by the hand and drew her front and center. “Adam, this is your sister, Stacy,” he introduced his oldest and youngest with a proud smile. “Stacy, this is your oldest brother, Adam.”

Adam, who remembered Stacy’s mother very well, could see a lot of her in the young woman standing before him, especially in those intense blue eyes, the color of a clear autumn sky at its zenith. He also sensed within his young sister a quiet, yet forceful, poised confidence and self-assurance that Paris McKenna, her mother, had sorely lacked. Adam deftly took Stacy’s hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “Pleased to meet you, Stacy, at last.”

“I-I’m pleased to meet you, too, Adam,” Stacy said with a surprised smile, and blushing for the second time within the space of half an hour. “I don’t recall anyone ever telling me that you’re so charming.”

“Take it from me, Little Sister, his charm is only skin deep,” Joe said with a grin. “Of course, you’ll have plenty of time to find that out for yourself.”

“I don’t know about that . . . . ” Adam’s wife, Teresa retorted with a saucy grin. “I happen to think the man’s VERY charming.” She paused, then added, “Of course I AM ever so slightly prejudiced.”

“Stacy, this is my wife, Teresa,” Adam said, as he placed his arm around her shoulders and drew her forward.

“How do you do, Stacy?” Teresa greeted her sister-in-law with a warm smile and a big hug.

“I’m glad to meet you, too, Teresa,” Stacy said, smiling and returning the hug.

Hoss, meanwhile, studied the passenger, who stood holding the stagecoach door, frowning. “Hey . . . it can’t be . . . Apollo?! Apollo Nikolas, you ol’ sea dog! Is that really you?”

The man turned and broke into a broad grin. “Well if it ain’t Hoss Cartwright!” he declared, offering his hand. “How’ve you been, you ol’ landlubber, you?”

“Fine, Apollo, how about yourself?”

“I’ve come home from the sea, Hoss,” Apollo said. “I decided it’s time to settle down and call one port my home.”

“Hey, Pa,” Hoss said, as Adam turned from his father and sister to greet his youngest brother, Joe, “you remember Apollo Nikolas, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Ben replied. “You home for a visit?”

“I’m home to STAY, Mister Cartwright,” Apollo said with a big, warm smile. “The Sea is a tempestuous, passionate, and thoroughly irresistible mistress, but she’s NOT the marrying kind.”

“ . . . and well I know it,” Ben said with a wistful smile. He offered the young seaman his hand. “Welcome home, Apollo.”

“Thank you, Sir, it feels real good to be home,” Apollo declared as he and Ben shook hands.

“What will you be doing with yourself, now that you’re home?” Ben asked.

“Right now, I’m going to find myself a place to stay,” Apollo said, “get myself into a hot bath to wash away the road, shave, get myself fixed up pretty, so I can look up my girl tonight. Beyond that . . . . ” He shrugged.

“Hey, Apollo,” Adam called after him, “there’s going to be a bachelor party for Matt Wilson . . . . ” He looked over at his father expectantly.

“Friday night in the back room at the Silver Dollar,” Ben supplied the particulars. “Seven-thirty sharp.”

“You’re invited, if you don’t have any other plans,” Adam said.

“I’ll be there, Adam,” Apollo promised. “Thank you.”

“Good seein’ you, Apollo,” Hoss called after him, as he finally took his leave.

“Come here, Big Brother, and give me a hug,” Adam turned and greeted Hoss with a broad grin.

“Great seeing you, too, Adam,” Hoss said sincerely. He and Adam exchanged bear hugs. “If Teresa keeps feedin’ you as well as she’s doin’, I’m gonna be callin’ YOU Big Brother, ‘fore long.”

“Very funny,” Adam retorted with a wry grin.

“Hoss, you’ll always and forever be Big Brother, simply because you STAND a whole head ‘n a half taller ‘n the rest of us,” Joe said with an impish grin. “As for Adam, we can call HIM Grandpa.” His hazel eyes, sparkling with pure mischief focused pointedly on Adam’s graying sideburns and receding hairline.

“Now wait just a doggoned minute! If we call ADAM Grandpa, what do I call YOU?” Stacy demanded.

“How about Honorable and Venerable Older Brother Sir?” Joe suggested in a very solemn tone of voice.

“Great punch line, GRANDPA!” Stacy laughed. “I can’t wait to hear the rest of the joke.”

“Actually, since I AM the oldest, I think it would be far MORE appropriate for our BABY sister to address ME as Honorable and Venerable Older Brother Sir,” Adam said. An amused smile tugged hard at the corner of his mouth as he entered into the spirit of his younger siblings’ bantering.

“I can think of a few choice things t’ call the both of ya,” Hoss said grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Better NOT, Hoss. Pa’ll wash your mouth out with soap if you do,” Stacy said in a tone of voice too serious and somber.

“Oh yeah?” Hoss queried. “How do YOU know?”

“Because I was thinking some of the same things,” Stacy replied with a naughty, mischievous grin.

Ben, meanwhile, turned and gave his daughter-in-law a warm hug. “Teresa, Hop Sing’s gone all out preparing a Mexican menu for dinner,” he said.

“That’s wonderful!” Teresa exclaimed with genuine delight. “Hop Sing prepares Mexican food better than most Mexicans, including me.”

“Now I wouldn’t go so far as to say THAT,” Ben protested.

“Who’s the expert on Mexican cooking here, Ben?” Teresa demanded with mock severity. “You or ME?”

“In this case, I bow to the superior intellect,” Ben surrendered with a smile.

“Wise move, Pa,” Adam quipped, then added gratefully, “thanks again for arranging that bachelor party. It’s one of the duties of the best man, but since I don’t live here anymore, I wouldn’t have known where to begin.”

“More than happy to do it, Son,” Ben said.

“So what did you line up for the entertainment?”

“Adam, I found the prettiest . . . . ” the words suddenly died in his throat when he caught sight of his youngest son, daughter, and daughter-in-law staring at him intently. Stacy displayed the avid curiosity of youth about Friday night’s planned festivities; while Joe’s interest was piqued by a nose put very much out of joint, because he had not been included among the invited guests. Teresa’s face, however, held enough of a threatening element to give Ben a real good case of the ‘heebie-jeebies.’ “We’ll talk about it later,” he said very quickly.

“So help me, Adam Cartwright, if you end up in jail again like you did after that bachelor party for my brother Miguel . . . . ”

“Have no fear, Teresa,” Adam said smoothly. “PA’S the one who made all the arrangements. You can rest assured everything will be orderly, tasteful, and dignified.”

“Daggone it, Adam,” Hoss muttered under his breath, “I sure hope it don’t turn out to be TOO orderly, tasteful, and dignified.”

After the luggage had been loaded in the back of the buckboard, Adam lifted Teresa up to her seat, then climbed up and took his place beside her. Ben and Hoss took the front seat, with the latter taking up the reigns. Joe and Stacy rode ahead on Cochise and Blaze Face, their respective modes of transportation.

“I understand this wedding has become something on the order of the wedding of the century,” Adam remarked.

“Well, seein’ as how Matt and Colleen have been engaged for pert near nine years now . . . . ” Hoss said.

“Wow! Talk about long engagements,” Teresa remarked archly.

“Actually, they ain’t been engaged the whole time,” Hoss explained. “It’s been more off and on. He proposes, she accepts, they start plannin’ the wedding, they fight, she breaks the engagement, they make up, he proposes . . . . ”

“ . . . and this has been going on for NINE YEARS?!” Teresa exclaimed incredulously.

“Sounds like a penny dreadful novel,” Adam said wryly. “Matt asked me to be his best man, I accepted. I had no idea things were so complicated.”

“I didn’t even know the wedding was on again until I got Adam’s letter about being Matt’s best man,” Ben confessed.

“How do you know they’re not going to get into a fight and break up again?” Teresa asked.

“For one thing, it’s been a whole month now since he proposed, she accepted, and they started planning the wedding,” Hoss replied.

“Only a month?!” Adam echoed, with a puzzled frown.

“That’s a new record, Adam,” Hoss said with a smile. “Lately, it’s only been a week or two between the marriage proposal and breakin’ the engagement.”

“Now that I think about it . . . this is also the closest those two have come to an actual set wedding date without calling the whole thing off,” Ben added.

“The three times before this? Matt an’ Colleen was fightin’ like cats ‘n dogs before they could even THINK about settin’ a date,” Hoss explained. “Hey, Pa?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“I hear Mick O’Flynn’s givin’ ten to one odds that the weddin’ actually takes place.”

“Hmpf! Last I heard, that old scalawag was giving something closer to TWENTY to one odds,” Ben said with a scowl. “ . . . uhhh, Hoss . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“I hope you haven’t placed any bets with Mister O’Flynn . . . . ”

“What makes ya think I’d, uhhhh . . . that I’d . . . w-well . . . that I’d, uuhhh . . . d-do . . . what ya j-just said, Pa . . . . ” Hoss stammered, as he quickly turned and fixed his eyes to the road stretching out before him. His reply coupled with an unusually anemic complexion drew a mildly questioning glance, with eyebrow slightly upraised from his older brother and a dark glare from his father.

“So who’s Mick O’Flynn?” Teresa asked, intrigued by the looks on the faces of her husband, brother-in-law, and father-in-law.

“Aww . . . he’s a li’l old man, always kinda down on his luck . . . but he’s a real NICE fella, ‘n real smart, too,” Hoss replied, profoundly relieved and exceedingly grateful for the change of subject. “He came to Virginia City some time last year . . . . ”

“ . . . fleeing a bench warrant for his arrest somewhere else, no doubt,” Ben muttered softly under his breath.

“He’s what most folks call a jack of all trades,” Hoss continued.

“He’s a con man,” Ben added, “a bootlegger, bookmaker, TROUBLE maker, he cheats at cards--- ”

“Pa, it was only that one time!” Hoss protested.

“ . . . that you know about because he happened to get caught!” Ben argued. “That man has more tricks up his sleeve than a magician, AND it wouldn’t surprise ME one bit if he turned out to be the guilty party behind the rash of thefts that’s been going on in Virginia City for the past couple of months.”

“Thefts, Pa?” Adam queried.

“It’s a lot of petty thefts, Son,” Ben sighed, “picking pockets, snatching purses, shoplifting, that sort of thing. Roy told me about it earlier.”

“Does Sheriff Coffee have any leads?” Adam asked.

Ben shook his head. “Roy says the thief moves in and out so fast, no one’s been able to give him a description, let alone identify him.”

“Now that right there’s proof positive Mister O’Flynn ain’t behind the thefts goin’ on in Virginia City,” Hoss said. “That man’s got arthritis so bad, he can’t move in ‘n outta nothin’ fast.”

“Alright . . . maybe he’s NOT doing the actual stealing,” Ben had to admit, “but it IS possible he’s the BRAINS behind the whole thing like that man in Mister Dickens novel . . . . ” He fell silent trying to remember. “Adam, help me out here . . . . ”

“The man you’re thinking of is Fagan, Pa,” Adam said. “The story’s Oliver Twist.”

“Aww, Pa . . . . ” Hoss groaned. “I think you’re bein’ a little hard on Mister O’Flynn.”

“Not after all the trouble that man stirred up after what Hop Sing’s relatives refer to as the Lo Mein Affair,” Ben said, his scowl deepening.

“Now, Pa . . . . ”

“Don’t you ‘now, Pa,’ ME, Erik Hoss Cartwright!” Ben sternly admonished his middle son. “Do you realize Mister O’Flynn had the gall . . . the sheer GALL . . . to blame ME for that fiasco!?”

“Mister O’Flynn didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Hoss vestured hesitantly, all the while flinching away from the ferocious scowl in his father’s face. “It was an honest mistake, Pa . . . ‘n . . . when ya take everything into account . . . well, even YOU gotta admit it’s understandable.”

“I admit no such thing!” Ben growled. “The fact of the matter is . . . I DIDN’T do it.”

“Pa, what’s this Lo Mein Affair you and Hoss are talking about?” Adam asked.

“The less said about it, the better,” Ben said grimly.

 

Hoss went home by way of the scenic route, taking Adam and his wife past some of the more the more breathtaking vistas the Ponderosa had to offer. Teresa, an urbanite born and bred, was awed by the wide expanse of sky, distant mountains, blue lake waters, and the tall, stately ponderosa pine trees. Adam found himself seeing his old home in a whole new way, through the entranced eyes of his wife. Though the drive from Virginia City was longer, they still made good time in reaching the house. Joe and Stacy, who had reached home in plenty of time to have tended their own horses, were on hand to unhitch the buckboard, with Candy’s help.

“Adam, I thought you an’ Teresa was gonna travel light when you came for the weddin’,” Hoss said, as he lifted the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth bags down from the back of the buckboard.

“Three trunks, fifteen bags, three band boxes IS traveling light, Big Brother,” Adam said, the barest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re joshin’!”

“Nope.”

“Apollo Nikolas’ timely arrival ought to make things interesting,” Joe remarked, while he and Candy freed the first horse from its harness.

“How so, Grandpa?” Stacy asked, as she led the first horse away from the buggy towards an open stall for a rub down.

“Until Apollo went to sea to make his fortune, he and Colleen were a very, VERY close twosome,” Joe explained. “They were good friends . . . kinda like Lotus ‘n me until, ohhh . . . ‘long about the fifth grade, I think . . . . ”

“What happened when they were in the fifth grade?” Stacy asked.

“They fell in love.”

“Love!” Hoss snorted. “Joe . . . for cryin’ out loud, Apollo ‘n Colleen were just a couple o’ kids. What in the world do a couple o’ ten year olds know ‘bout love?!”

“I’D say plenty,” Joe quipped. “From fifth grade on, didn’t they always buddy up with each other every time you had to work with a partner on a big school project?”

“Well . . . yeah . . . I s’pose . . . . ”

“ . . . and didn’t they always walk to and from school together?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“ . . . AND didn’t Apollo always carry Colleen’s books?”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“ . . . and when THEY were around the same age as our kid sister over here . . . how many times did that gossipy ol’ busy body, Miss Mudgely, make snide comments about the two of ‘em being joined at the hip?”

“ . . . lots,” Hoss replied, as he slowly exhaled a long, audible, melancholy sigh.

“ . . . uhhh, Grandpa?”

“Yeah, Stace?”

“What did Miss Mudgely mean when she said that Apollo and Colleen were joined at the hip?”

“When you’re older, Kiddo . . . MUCH older,” Joe replied, drawing an exasperated sigh and a sarcastic roll of the eyes from his young sister.

“Alright! Apollo ‘n Colleen DID walk t’ school together . . . yeah, he carried her books t’ school ‘n back . . . ‘n they buddied up on a lotta school projects,” Hoss admitted with much reluctance. “They also went t’ all the dances . . . went on picnics . . . he’d also win a great big teddy bear for her at the target shoot every year at the Founders’ Day doin’s. But that DON’T mean they were in love.”

“How about when Apollo left to sail the seven seas?” Joe queried. “Frankie . . . Colleen’s brother . . . told me that she cried for the better part of a whole long month of Sundays. Now if THAT ain’t love, Big Brother--- ”

“Joe . . . that was pert near TEN years ago,” Hoss immediately pointed out, “ ‘n the whole time he was gone? Apollo didn’t even write her . . . not one time, ‘n it wasn’t too long after he left that Colleen was steppin’ out with MATT.”

“ . . . uhhh, Hoss?”

“Yeah, Li’l Sister?”

“Didn’t Apollo Nikolas say something to Pa about getting himself clean and pretty so he could look up his girl tonight?” Stacy asked, as she finished rubbing down the first horse.

Joe flashed Hoss a smug ‘See-didn’t-I-tell-you-so?’ grin.

“Joe . . . just in case y’ ain’t noticed . . . Colleen ain’t the ONLY gal livin’ in Virginia City,” Hoss argued.

“I KNOW that, Big Brother,” Joe replied, favoring the biggest of his siblings with a withering glare. “So what?!”

“So the gal Apollo’s plannin’ t’ see tonight ain’t necessarily Colleen.”

“On the other hand she could very well BE Colleen,” Joe argued.

“ . . . uhhh, Stacy?”

“Yeah, Hoss?”

“Did Apollo happen t’ say the NAME the gal he’s fixin’ to visit tonight?”

“Nope.” Stacy shook her head.

“There y’ are, Baby Brother,” Hoss declared with a smug grin. “Come Saturday, this weddin’ is goin’ off without a hitch, you mark my words. I got twenty bucks ridin’ on it.”

“We’ll see,” Joe said. He led the first horse to the back door of the barn and released him into the enormous corral beyond, while Stacy moved the second horse to the open stall for a rub down.

“Come on, Adam, let’s start haulin’ this stuff inside,” Hoss said, lifting a trunk with four bags piled on top.

“Next time I’m in town, I’m betting that wedding DOESN’T come off this time,” Joe declared with relish. “Colleen’s gonna take up with Apollo while Matt renews his acquaintance with that gal at the Silver Dollar.” He frowned. “What’s her name?”

“Which one, Grandpa?” Stacy asked.

“The one Frankie O’Hanlan’s got a crush on.”

“Oh! You mean Clarissa Starling,” Stacy said thoughtfully. “Joe?”

“Yeah, Kiddo?”

“Would you mind placing a bet for me?”

“With what?” Joe teased. “The last three advances on your allowance have you in hock for the next ten years.”

“SLIGHT exaggeration, Grandpa,” Stacy declared loftily.

“VERY slight,” Joe countered. “I know for a fact Pa’s gonna let you have a FOURTH advance when certain nether regions famous for hot temperatures get hit by frost.”

“I found a dollar in my coat pocket,” Stacy admitted.

“Stacy, if Pa finds out YOU’RE placing bets with Mick O’Flynn, you’re gonna be hip deep in sheep dip,” Joe said soberly, “and I’M gonna be all the way up to my neck if he finds out I placed the bet FOR you. You know that don’t you?”

“Were you planning on telling him?” Stacy asked.

“ . . . uh, no.”

“Good! Neither was I.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Alright,” he agreed. “How do you want to place your bet?”

Stacy whispered her instructions in his ear.

Joe’s eyes grew round with shock and astonishment. He whistled. “Talk about your long shots!” he shrugged. “Oh, well, it’s your buck.”

 

Ben and Teresa, meanwhile, had gone into the house.

“Mrs. Teresa,” Hop Sing greeted Adam’s wife with a broad grin, “so good to see you again.”

“It’s wonderful seeing you again, too, Hop Sing,” Teresa greeted him with a warm smile and a hug. “Ben tells me you’ve prepared a Mexican meal for dinner. I can’t wait.”

“In Mrs. Teresa’s honor,” Hop Sing said proudly. “Come see!” He deftly took Teresa by the elbow and steered her in the direction of the kitchen.

“Hey!” Ben said, with hands on hips. “How does SHE rate going into the kitchen and the rest of us don’t?”

Hop Sing turned and glared defiantly at Ben. “Mrs. Teresa neat and clean lady. Make no mess in Hop Sing’s kitchen,” he replied.

“Pa?” It was Hoss, with Adam following. Between them, they carried the luggage belonging to the latter and his wife. “Where do you want these?”

“Adam, I thought I’d put you and Teresa in your old room,” Ben said, “unless you’d rather have the guest room.”

“My old room’s fine,” Adam replied. “Where’s Teresa?”

“You won’t believe this, Son,” Ben said with a puzzled glance at the kitchen door. “Hop Sing actually invited her into his kitchen.”

Hoss let out a long, slow whistle. “Now don’t THAT beat all,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“You’re right, Pa! I DON’T believe it,” Adam declared.

“Come on, Adam, let’s get this up to your room,” Hoss said.

Adam fell in step behind his younger, bigger brother and followed him upstairs to the familiar room at the southern end of the house. The arrangement of furniture remained as it had been the day he left the Ponderosa to make his own fortune elsewhere. The personal items, his books, engravings of Greek antiquities, a small rock collection, the miniature portrait of his parents, all the things that defined this room as a space uniquely his own, were long gone. Pa had given him the miniature portrait for his birthday the year he and Teresa had announced their engagement. The other things had no doubt been relegated to the attic. Now the room had the same impersonal atmosphere as the guest room.

“Adam, what in the world did Teresa pack in this trunk anyway?” Hoss half-set half- dropped the trunk on the floor next to the foot of the bed. He straightened and heaved a long, heavy sigh of relief. “I’ve picked up and carried boulders that were a sight lighter.”

“Books,” Adam said.

Hoss shook his head. “I’ve heard o’ heavy readin’ before, but that’s dadburn ridiculous.”

“Very funny,” Adam retorted with a wry chuckle. “Come on, let’s get the rest of the stuff up here.”

“I can manage the rest, if ‘n you want to get a start on the unpackin’,” Hoss said casting a pointed glance at the vast array of bag and baggage already deposited at various points through out the room.

“Good idea,” Adam agreed readily. “I WOULD like to get it done by bedtime.”

Hoss left and returned a few moments later with the last of Adam and Teresa’s luggage. “You need any help with unpackin’?” he asked.

Adam shook his head. “I can manage with that,” he said, “however, I would appreciate some hot water for a quick wash and maybe a shave before dinner.”

“Comin’ right up,” Hoss promised.

Left alone, Adam set himself to the chore of unpacking, since his wife would in all likelihood be in the kitchen with Hop Sing until the meal was served. He still found that difficult to believe, given how territorial Hop Sing could be about that kitchen.

This visit marked Adam’s third to the old homestead since his move to Sacramento, and Teresa’s second. This summer would mark the first time his children ever visited the Ponderosa. By contrast, his father made a point of stopping by to see him at least once, sometimes twice a year, when business took him to Sacramento. Since the arrival of Benjy and Dio, Ben, more often than not, extended his visits by several days.

 _“Adam, when are you, Teresa, and the kids going to come see US?” Pa always asked. “They have yet to meet Uncle Hoss and Uncle Joe . . . . ”_

For the last six years, Aunt Stacy had been added to the list, as well.

 _“Soon, Pa,” Adam always answered . . . ._

Maybe for Christmas, maybe next summer when Benjy and Dio are finished with school for the year, maybe, maybe, maybe. So many years of maybes, that for one reason or another never came to pass.

Adam did make a point of keeping in touch with his family via the U. S. mail, and the occasional telegram, especially since his marriage to Teresa and subsequent births of their two children. Still, the distance in miles and interests kept them apart. Though he loved his father and two younger brothers dearly, he sometimes felt the odd man out, especially after his return home from Harvard University. He could, on occasion, discuss his intellectual interests with his father, but his brothers . . . .

Adam sighed very softly and shook his head.

Joe would start out listening politely to what amounted to a one sided lecture, that more often than not degenerated into an angry diatribe, when the kid decided to stick his own ‘two cents’ in. Hoss’ eyes would simply glaze over at the outset.

In Teresa di Cordova, he met and married a warm, passionate woman every bit his intellectual equal. His father and brothers came to Sacramento for the wedding. They, of course, fell in love with her the moment they met her. Teresa was able to relate and talk to them with an ease that left Adam feeling a little envious.

 _“How many more years do we have left to us?”_ Adam pondered the question silently, regretting the near decade of unfulfilled maybes. _“None of us are getting any younger.”_ Seeing his brothers, Hoss and Joe, at the stage depot this afternoon, brought home this inevitable fact of life with all the force of a sledgehammer. When he had left the Ponderosa, both of them were practically kids, especially Joe. The brothers he saw today were grown men, his peers rather than his kid brothers.

“ . . . and today I meet my kid SISTER . . . who’s not much of a kid anymore . . . for the very first time!” Adam ruminated, realizing for the first time that it had been quite awhile since Pa had last referred to her as ‘a li’l slip of a gal’ in his letters.

A soft knock at on the open door drew him from his reverie. He turned and saw his father with a bowl of steaming hot water.

“Thanks, Pa,” Adam said, taking the bowl from Ben. “Teresa still with Hop Sing in the kitchen?”

Ben nodded, as he stepped into the room. “I just looked in on them,” he said. “Hop Sing was letting her sample the meat for the tacos.”

“Really?” Adam looked over at Ben, eyebrow raised. “The last time I tried to sample something while it was cooking, Hop Sing chased me all the way out to the corral.”

“I remember,” Ben said with a chuckle.

Adam opened his toiletries bag and removed his razor, brush, cup, and shaving soap. “Looks like Hop Sing’s mellowing out in his old age,” he remarked.

“Not hardly, Son,” Ben said, grinning. “Hop Sing would have run your baby brother and sister out of the kitchen with a carving knife about a month ago, if I hadn’t intervened.”

“A carving knife?!” Adam queried with a wry smile and upraised eyebrow.

“Ok, ok . . . slight exaggeration,” Ben admitted with a chuckle.

“ . . . and you . . . intervened?” Adam laughed along with his father. “Gotta hand it to ya, Pa . . . you’ve got more guts than I have.”

“Hop Sing said to tell you dinner will be served in an hour,” Ben said. “I don’t think I need to remind ya to be seated at the table on time, ready to eat it while it’s hot.”

“Nope.” Adam shook his head. “Pa?”

“Yes, Son?”

“I’m glad there’s a few things in this world that never change,” Adam said with a nostalgic smile.

“I guess I’d better let you get washed and shaved, Son. See you at the table.”

“Ok, Pa,” Adam said as he lathered his face. “Thanks again for the hot water.”

 

Apollo Nikolas, meanwhile, checked into Kirk’s Hostelry, a boarding house owned and operated by one Rita Mae Kirk and her widowed mother, Eloise. Located on a quiet street near the edge of town, the establishment offered clean linens, comfortable beds, and good old fashioned home-style cooking, prepared by Eloise Kirk herself.

“Apollo Nikolas, as I live and breathe!” Rita Mae declared smiling broadly. “I hear say you’re home for good.”

“I see news still travels fast in Virginia City,” Apollo observed with a wry grin, “and I’m NOT talking about the telegraph wires.”

“Nothing faster than Miss Mudgely’s word of mouth,” Rita Mae replied. “Now where’s that Billy Lee?”

“Don’t worry about Billy Lee,” Apollo said. “I can heft m’ own gear.” He bent down and picked up a large, canvas duffle bag and a smaller carpetbag. “You just lead the way, Rita Mae.”

Apollo’s parents, Demetrius and Hellene Nikolas had died not long after he put to sea, both within six months of the other. His mother had finally succumbed to the illness she had fought so valiantly for a number of years. His father, according to Doc Martin, had simply wanted to be with the wife, with whom he had shared the better part of thirty-two years. Both were buried, side-by-side, on the hill overlooking the big pasture and the pond enclosed within.

 _“ . . . it was their favorite spot,” his twin sister, Athena, had written in the letter informing him of their parents’ deaths. “They went out there together every night to watch the sunset, unless the weather was bad or if it was too cold, until Mama became too weak. A few days before Mama died, they asked Jack and me to bury them there on top of that hill.”_

His sister and brother-in-law, Athena and Jack Hurley, now owned and worked the farm that had once belonged to his parents. _“Which is only fitting since they’ve been helping Papa with the farm since the day they said their ‘I do’s, more years ago than I care to count sometimes,”_ he mused silently. _“They also helped Papa take care of Mama and, when Papa became sick that last time, they looked after him, too.”_ Athena and Jack had identical twin sons, Harlan and David, both of whom were children when he put out to sea all those years ago, and a daughter Cassandra, who was barely out of diapers. The Hurleys were all the family he had left in the world. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, he planned to ride out and see them.

Tonight, however, Apollo planned see the beautiful girl who had haunted his dreams mostly waking, occasionally sleeping, for the past ten years. He wrote her nearly everyday for that last decade, though he had not heard word one from her. This he blamed entirely on the inherent difficulty of getting the mail through to sailors at sea. Apollo had also kept himself wholly for her, except for the few times he was feeling especially homesick, and had sought comfort in the arms of a stranger in an exotic port of call half way around the world. Even so, in his own mind, he had never given his heart to any of those lovely exotic women. That was, and always would be, reserved for Miss Colleen Bridget O’Hanlan. It never occurred to him that ten years had passed since he had last seen Colleen, and that she might have given her own heart to another in that time.

“You’ve arrived just in time for the Wedding of the Century,” Rita Mae said as she led the way up the stairs.

“Matt Wilson?” Apollo queried.

“You’ve heard?”

“Only about the bachelor party,” Apollo replied. “I come in on the same stage as Adam Cartwright, the best man. He and his pa invited me to the party.”

“Really,” Rita Mae murmured tonelessly. “Are you . . . going?”

Apollo had to chuckle at her hesitancy. “Of course I’m going,” he declared stoutly. “One thing I do remember before putting out to sea was that the Cartwright family knew how to give great parties.” His face fell slightly. “They’ve not forgotten how . . . have they?”

“No, absolutely not,” Rita Mae said quickly. “Have you, uuh . . . seen Colleen yet?”

“Not yet,” Apollo replied. “I was planning to visit this evening, which reminds me, Rita Mae . . . can I get hot water for a bath and shave?”

“I’ll see to it at once,” Rita Mae replied, as they came to a stop before the closed door at the far end of the corridor. “Here you are, Apollo.” She opened the door. “Keys . . . . ” She tossed them onto the dresser next to the door. “Breakfast begins at eight sharp. Dinner’s at noon, and supper on the dot of six.”

“Thanks, Rita Mae.”

Rita Mae pulled the door shut behind him, after he had entered.

“Y’ oughtta be ashamed o’ yourself, Miss Margarita Mae Kirk. Do you hear me?! Ashamed!” It was her mother, Eloise standing a few feet behind her with a thunderous scowl on her face, and both hands planted firmly on her hips.

“ . . . and what have I done to be so ashamed o’ myself?”

“I listened to everything you told Apollo,” her mother said severely. “I don’t recall you sayin’ one word about Colleen O’Hanlan bein’ the one whut’s gettin’ hitched to Matt Wilson.”

“Well, of course not,” Rita Mae said, “and he’s not going to hear it from me, either.” She paused for a moment to glare at her mother. “Do you want to know why? Because I have twenty-five bucks riding that says Matt and Colleen are finally gonna go through with it.”

“He’s gonna find out,” Eloise said. “Sooner or later, he WILL. You know how people in this town’re given t’ talk . . . . ” This last prompted a wry glance from her daughter.

“Be that as it may, Ma,” Rita Mae said with an indifferent shrug. “He’s NOT going to hear it from ME.”

 

Dinner at the Cartwright home was served exactly one hour later. Ben occupied his usual place at the head of the table, with Adam on his right and Hoss on his left. Teresa sat between Adam and Stacy, with Joe on the opposite side of the table sandwiched between Hoss and Candy. Hop Sing sat at the foot of the table.

“Hop Sing, this meal is wonderful,” Teresa sighed with pure pleasure. “I’d forgotten how talented you are in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Teresa,” Hop Sing grinned from ear to ear. “More enchiladas?”

“Thank you, don’t mind if I do,” Teresa replied, eagerly helping herself.

“How about Miss Stacy?” Hop Sing queried.

“Yes, I’ll have some more . . . . ” she looked over at Teresa “ . . . enchiladas?”

“Si,” Teresa replied with a smile.

“I’ll have another taco, too,” Stacy said. “Hop Sing, this IS delicious. I hope you’ll cook Mexican more often.”

“Thank you, Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing said, smiling. “Coming from you, that high praise. Very high praise indeed!”

“Hey, Kid, you and Big Brother here change bodies?” Joe queried looking from Stacy over to Hoss, then back to Stacy.

“No, not the last time I checked,” Stacy replied, as she dug into one of the enchiladas on her plate with relish. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re chowing down like there’s no tomorrow the way HOSS usually does, and he’s picking at his plate like YOU usually do,” Joe said.

“Sorry, Hop Sing . . . and Teresa,” Hoss said, his voice filled with remorse. “This little stuff ‘s all well an’ good, but a big fella like me needs something he can . . . well, he can sink his teeth into.”

“Eat, Mister Hoss,” Hop Sing laughed. “Plenty more for big fella to sink teeth into waiting in kitchen.”

“Pa, about the entertainment Friday night,” Adam said, leaning in closer to his father.

Ben invited Hoss to join the huddle with a glance. “Boys, I’ve lined up twelve Parisian dancing gals,” he said, his dark eyes gleaming with eager anticipation.

“As in from Paris, France, Pa?” Hoss queried, taking care to keep his voice low. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Yes, Son, as in from Paris, France,” Ben replied. He darted a quick glance at Stacy and Teresa, and saw, much to his satisfaction and relief, that the two of them had their heads together in what looked to be very animated conversation. “Boys,” he continued, “these ladies have GOT to be the twelve prettiest women west of the Mississippi.”

“Oh yeah?” It was Joe, eagerly eavesdropping with a big silly grin on his face. “You REALLY got the twelve prettiest gals west of the Mississippi coming to this shindig?!”

“You’ve the twelve prettiest gals west of the Mississippi coming to this party, eh?” Teresa said, glaring daggers at the three men seated and the head end of the table. “Stacy, it looks like the two of us are invited after all.”

“ . . . and where, pray, would you get an idea like THAT?” Adam queried, favoring his loving wife with a disdainful glare.

“It’s the only LOGICAL conclusion,” Teresa returned, every bit as wry, sarcastic, and disdainful as Adam could be at his very worst. Joe quickly raised his napkin up to cover his mouth, hiding the big silly grin he could not erase, not even to save his life.

“My gut tells me I’m better off NOT asking this, but I’ve got to know . . . . ” Adam returned, “what, exactly, is your reasoning?”

“Ben just got through saying that he’s arranged for the twelve prettiest women west of the Mississippi to be at this party, correct?”

“Yes . . . . ” Adam replied, bracing himself for the dropping of the other shoe.

“Well, given that Stacy and I . . . . ” Teresa turned and favored her sister-in-law with a smile and a wink, “ . . . happen to be tied for the number one spot . . . . ”

“You’re absolutely right, Teresa,” Ben said quietly. “Let’s make that the twelve prettiest gals west of the Mississippi . . . PRESENT COMPANY EXCEPTED.”

Adam flashed his wife a smug cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, and deftly thumbed up his nose.

Teresa immediately retaliated by sticking out her tongue.

“ . . . ummm um!” Joe quipped, his grin broadening. “Adam, the minute you introduced me to this lovely lady, I just knew that Teresa was gonna be real good for you.”

“Why, thank you, Joe,” Teresa said, smiling warmly over at the younger of her two brothers-in-law.

“Adam . . . Hoss . . . we’ll discuss this later,” Ben said, looking from Joe, to Teresa, to Stacy.

“Teresa, I need a really big favor from you,” Stacy said, returning her attention to the meal at hand.

“Certainly,” Teresa readily agreed. “What do you need?”

“I’m having a dress made for this wedding,” Stacy explained. “Pa said I had to.”

“Pa was absolutely right,” Joe teased. “Britches and boots are definitely NOT the right kind of attire for a young la---uhhh . . . oops!” He flinched under the homicidal glare she leveled in his direction, “ . . . uuhh, make that young WOMAN . . . . ”

“That’s better,” Stacy said.

“ . . . to wear to a wedding.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, Pa was ALSO absolutely right when he said you have to wear your . . . how do you phrase that? Oh yeah! Your monkey suit!” Stacy countered.

“I do NOT!” Joe indignantly protested.

“You do SO!” Stacy argued.

“Do NOT!”

“You do SO!” Ben immediately chimed in before Stacy could open her mouth.

“Aww, come ON, Pa,” Joe groaned. “Do I really HAVE to?”

“Yes, you do,” Ben said sternly, “WITH a tie.”

“A tie?!” Joe cried out in complete and utter dismay.

“That’s right, Son . . . a TIE!” Ben reiterated

“Oooohh NO!”

“Oh yes!”

“Paaa-aaaaahhh . . . . ”

“Anyway . . . . ” Stacy returned her attention to Teresa, “I’m supposed go in for a fitting tomorrow afternoon, and I’d like you to come along as a consultant.”

Teresa smiled. “Stacy, I’d be honored,” she replied.

Ben, overhearing snatches of the conversation between his daughter and daughter-in-law, was gratified and deeply relieved that Stacy had actually sought Teresa’s counsel on her own. In recent months, he found himself fretting more often about the scarcity of feminine influence in his daughter’s life. Stacy was no longer a child. She was, almost overnight, blossoming into a lovely young woman. It seemed so to him, anyway. Ben had no illusions about his own ignorance in such matters as appropriate attire for young women. Stacy knew even less than he did about such things. Her insistence on keeping the details of her new dress a surprise had done nothing to ease his worries.

That coupled with a conversation a few weeks ago with his youngest son on that particular subject . . . .

. . . a conversation that he couldn’t begin to recall to save his life, except for a handful of certain key words like bright colors . . . satin . . . like the gals at the Silver Dollar wear.

Ben offered a silent heartfelt prayer of thanks for his daughter-in-law’s fortuitous arrival.

“Hey, Pa,” Hoss said sotto voce, “Stacy and Teresa are back talkin’ with each other again.”

“They certainly are,” Adam agreed, as he and Hoss moved back in close.

“Tell us again about them prettiest twelve gals this side of the Mississippi,” Hoss prompted with an eager grin.

“Present company excepted, of course,” Adam added wryly.

“They’re Parisian can-can dancers,” Ben said, taking care to keep his voice low.

“What’s can-can dancers, Pa?” Hoss queried.

“Short skirts kicking up lots of loo-ooo-ng, shapely leg,” Adam replied with a sly grin.

“Short skirts kicking up lots of long leg, ‘ey?” Joe echoed, raising his voice loud enough for his sister and sister-in-law to hear. “Why wasn’t I invited to this party?”

“Look, BABY Brother, this happens to be a PRIVATE conversation,” Adam said sardonically.

“You don’t even know Matt Wilson,” Hoss pointed out.

“I do SO!” Joe argued.

“Y’ ain’t a close friend like Adam ‘n me,” Hoss countered.

“Joe? You can always join me and the guys for a couple o’ beers over at the Bucket of Blood on Friday night,” Candy said with a wry, ironic grin.

“Thanks,” Joe sighed, thinking of how beer and a night out with the boys were poor substitutes for short skirts and long legs. “I’ll, umm . . . let you know.”

“You know, tomorrow we could ALL go into town together,” Ben said. “Hoss and Adam can take the buckboard, pick up the food and decorations for the party, and get the stuff over to the Silver Dollar for Friday night . . . . ”

“ . . . while you drive Teresa and me in the buggy to the dress shop and join the guys later?” Stacy said.

“I . . . h-how did you know I w-was going to suggest . . . . ?!” Ben stammered, taken completely by surprise.

“Pa, even I could see that one coming,” Joe said grinning.

“You’ll see it when it’s finished, Pa.” Stacy obstinately stood her ground.

“Alright, Young Woman, you’ve forced my hand,” Ben said sternly.

“Uh oh, Kid, you’re in for it now,” Joe crowed.

“I’m willing to forget the last three advances on your allowance,” Ben said, drawing looks of shock and stupefaction from his three sons.

“Now, that’s an offer I CAN’T refuse,” Stacy said. “Ok, YOU can come, Pa, just remember, Teresa’s my consultant.”

“I’ll remember,” Ben promised.

“That’s not fair, Little Sister,” Hoss complained. “How come Pa gets to see your new dress first?”

“Because the last three advances on my allowance have me in hock until Christmas,” Stacy replied, “of NEXT year.”

“Stacy, there IS the matter of what’s become known as the Lo Mein Affair,” Joe threatened.

“I had nothing to do with that, Joseph Francis Cartwright, and you da---uhhh! You, ummm DARNED well know it!” Stacy declared, with an indignant scowl.

“The circumstantial evidence is awfully compelling, Kiddo,” Joe hastened to point out.

“Ok, ok, you guys win,” Stacy acquiesced quickly. “You can come, too.”

“Seeing as how everyone else is going, I might as well invite myself along,” Adam said.

“Hop Sing . . . Candy, we might as well make it a family outing,” Stacy sighed, surrendering to the inevitable.

“This I’ve got to see,” Candy said grinning. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Hop Sing come, too,” Hop Sing promised.

“Looks like that fitting room at Madame Darnier’s shop’s gonna be awfully crowded tomorrow,” Stacy sighed.

 

“How?” Clarissa Starling sobbed. “How could he do this to me? He an’ I were talkin’ about our own wedding, f-f-for c-cryin’ out loud.”

She sat before the vanity table in her room upstairs at the Silver Dollar Saloon, still wearing a nightgown of silk, dyed a light sea green, and matching satin wrap. She had green eyes the color of tree leaves in summertime, and long, thick, luxurious curls the color of burnished copper. Aged in her early twenties, she had a slim, willowy figure, with flat stomach and a subtle curve of the hip. Clarissa had started work at the Silver Dollar four years ago when her pa died suddenly in a mine collapse. Her mother had never recovered from the shock and grief. Clarissa, the eldest, found herself in the place of having to earn a living to not only support herself and her mother, but three younger sisters as well.

Sally Tyler, Clarissa’s closest friend and confident since she had gone to work at the Silver Dollar, rose from the bed on which she had been sitting and walked over to stand behind the distraught younger woman. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, as she slipped her arms around Clarissa’s shoulders. “But . . . . ”

“B-but?” Clarissa sniffled. “But what, Sally?”

Sally sat down on the edge of the vanity table bench. “Clarissa, this is a harsh fact o’ life for gals like us,” she said, looking her friend earnestly in the eye. Her heart went out to the young woman seated next to her. Had it not been for her pa’s sudden demise in that cave in a few years ago, Clarissa would now be married to a decent man very much like Matt Wilson, leading the life of a rancher’s wife or a respected Virginia City matron. Though Clarissa still clung to that dream for dear life, the ever-practical Sally knew that, for all intents and purposes, her dream had died the first day the girl started work at the Silver Dollar. “Clarissa, look at me.”

Clarissa looked over meeting Sally’s hazel eyes with her own vivid green ones, sparkling with the brightness of unshed tears.

“You’re young and very pretty,” Sally said sincerely. “What’s more, you’ve got the kind o’ prettiness that lasts. You’ll still be pretty long after I’ve gone to fat and Laurie Lee’s turned into a spindly ol’ prune.”

Clarissa smiled through her tears at the thought of the vivacious Laurie Lee Bonner turning into a wrinkled prune.

“That means you’re gonna have men takin’ up with you for many years t’ come,” Sally continued, “an’ nine outta ten of ‘em will talk real big about gettin’ married, but the minute their respectable girlfriends . . . . an’ sometimes even their wives, beckon, they’re off like a shot.”

“That’s not right,” Clarissa sobbed.

“No, it ain’t,” Sally agreed wholeheartedly, “but that’s the way it IS.” She paused to allow her words to sink in. “Honey, the sooner you accept that, the less your heart’ll be broke over men like Matt Wilson.”

“You mean I’m never gonna get married? Never gonna have a brood o’ kids o’ my own?” Clarissa asked dismally.

Clarissa looked so grief-stricken, Sally almost burst into tears herself. “You might,” she said. “Jenna Wilkes, bless her heart, got herself hitched last year to a right decent fella from Carson City, but you can’t bank your hopes on that anymore.”

“Don’t YOU ever wanna get married, Sally?” Clarissa asked.

Sally shook her head. “Bein’ the oldest gal in the family, I had to pretty much take over the cookin’, cleanin’ an’ helping Pa raise two rambunctious kid brothers after Ma died,” she replied. “After Ralphie, the youngest, came o’ age, I kinda felt like I’d done raised MY kids. I wanted more ‘n anything to be on my own.”

“You have any regrets, Sally?”

“Nope,” Sally shook her head. She gave her young friend a reassuring hug. “It’s gettin’ late, Clarissa,” she said in a gentle, yet firm tone. “Time t’ be washin’ your face an’ gettin’ dressed, so’s we c’n grab a bite o’ supper. We go to work at seven sharp.”

 

Apollo left Kirk’s Hostelry that evening promptly at seven o’clock. He had bathed, shaved, and had even found time during the afternoon to make a trip to the barbershop. He wore his dark blue first mate’s uniform with a white turtleneck sweater. As he climbed up on the horse he had rented from the livery stable, Apollo cursed himself for not remembering to buy flowers. He did, however, have a special gift, beautifully wrapped by Rita Mae Kirk, tucked away safely in the pocket of his jacket. It was a piece of scrimshaw, intricately carved into a bas relief of leaves and flowers, from a whale’s tooth. In the center was a heart, etched with his and Colleen’s names.

He arrived at the O’Hanlan residence at precisely ten minutes past the hour. He tied his horse to the nearest hitching post and bounded up the three wooden steps from the street to the front door with the excitement and exuberance of a schoolboy. He pulled the carefully wrapped gift from his pocket and knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

“Colleen, My Love, y’ haven’t changed a bit!” Apollo declared as he seized the strawberry blonde haired, blue eyed young woman who had answered the door, in his big strong arms and danced with her around.

“Who . . . Apollo? Apollo Nikolas?!”

“Of course, My Darling.”

“Apollo, I’m not my sister. I’m MOLLY.”

“Molly? What’s going on out there?” Colleen O’Hanlan demanded, as she flounced into the living room. “Ma says--- ” All further words died before she could give them utterance, upon catching sight of the handsome man dressed in his first mate’s uniform. She gazed up at him, through eyes round as saucers, unable to speak.

“Colleen?” Apollo said tenderly.

“A-Apollo?” she barely managed to stammer out his name. “W-what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see you,” Apollo replied with a warm smile. “Colleen, My Love, I’ve made my fortune, and I’ve come home, for good. Surely you got my letter . . . . ”

Colleen stared at him, too dumbfounded to even speak. At length, she pivoted with excruciating slowness, then ran up the stairs, leaving her younger sister, Molly and Apollo staring after her in shocked bewilderment.

“COLLEEN . . . WAIT!” Apollo called after her a few moments later, upon finding his own voice. He started for the still open front door of the O’Hanlan house.

“Oh no you don’t!” Molly growled interposing herself between Apollo and the open door.

“Molly, please!” he begged.

“No!” Molly stubbornly stood her ground.

For a moment, Apollo was completely taken aback. The obstinate young woman, with an angry look on her face ready to kill, was a far cry from the painfully shy Molly O’Hanlan he remembered.

“Molly, please stand aside,” he ordered, drawing himself up to full height.

“I will NOT,” she declared. “Apollo Nikolas, the ONLY way you’re getting into that house is over my dead body!”

“It WON’T come down to that!” Apollo said, his jaw set with stubborn determination of his own. He reached down and lifted the diminutive Molly in his arms, intending to set her aside, well out of the path between him and the front door.

“APOLLO NIKOLAS, YOU PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!” Molly screamed at the top of her voice, kicking and pummeling his chest and shoulders with her balled fists.

Apollo was ill prepared for her transformation onto the snarling, angry cougar he suddenly found himself holding in his arms. With the elastic ease of a big, wild cat, Molly twisted in the firm grip of his arms and bit his hand so hard, she drew blood. Apollo yelped with pain, finally releasing her. Molly fell, landing in an ungainly heap on the front porch.

“What the bloody hell’s goin’ on out here?” an angry masculine voice demanded.

Molly gracelessly scrambled to her feet. “It’s Apollo Nikolas, Pa,” she said angrily. “He tried to force his way into the house, but I wouldn’t let him.”

“You g’won back inside, Molly, I’ll handle this,” Francis O’Hanlan addressed his youngest daughter in a more kindly tone. He was acutely aware of the sudden presence of Mrs. Hannah Adams, the bank president’s wife and busy body of a next door neighbor, standing outside on her front porch, pointedly staring.

Molly nodded and retreated to the safety of the house.

“Mister Nikolas, I’ll thank you to leave,” Francis O’Hanlan ordered, drawing himself up to full height.

“Not until I see Colleen,” Apollo insisted stubbornly.

“Colleen doesn’t want to see you,” Francis said firmly. “Not now, or ever again.”

“If Colleen doesn’t want to see me, let HER tell me,” Apollo said, standing akimbo, his arms folded defiantly across his broad chest.

“Apollo Nikolas, you will remove your sorry carcass from my front porch, or I’ll remove it for you,” Francis threatened.

“I won’t leave ‘til I see Colleen.”

“That does it!” Francis growled, removing his jacket.

“What may I ask is goin’ on out there?” Mrs. O’Hanlan appeared at the front door, with broom in hand.

“Back into t’ house with ya, Woman,” Francis growled. “I’m takin’ care o’ this!”

Myrna O’Hanlan, her mouth set in a grim determined line walked out of the house and across the porch with all the ferociousness of a legendary Celtic warrior goddess. Brandishing her broom as a weapon, she soundly swatted Apollo Nikolas upside the head with it. “Be off with ya, Apollo,” she cried.

“Not until I see--- ”

Myrna hit him again with the broom, bringing to bear every ounce of strength, born of her growing wrath and indignation. “I said be off with ya!”

Apollo threw up his hands to protect himself. “I’ll be back!” he vowed, backing off the front porch. His foot missed the steps. He fell on the dirt road below, landing on rump. “I swear, I’ll be back, and I’ll keep comin’ back until I see Colleen.”

“YOU DO, AND . . . SO HELP ME, APOLLO NIKOLAS . . . SO-OOOO-OOO HELP ME . . . I’LL HAVE SHERIFF COFFEE THROW YOUR SORRY ARSE IN JAIL,” Myrna yelled back. An outraged gasp, followed immediately by a second, caught and drew her attention. She turned slowly and saw, much to her horror and chagrin, Hannah Adams staring back at her clutching her own porch railing for support. Her mouth was open, and face white as a sheet. Behind her stood Mrs. Myra Danvers, one of the staunchest pillars of church, society, and community, glaring back at her reprovingly.

 

The following morning, Adam and Teresa rose at dawn to get in a ride before breakfast. They rode together in companionable silence to Ponderosa Plunge, a high rocky cliff overlooking a valley of deep blue lake, tall ponderosa pine trees, and mountains in the far distance. Adam had given the spot that name himself the first time his father took him there at the age of thirteen. In the ensuing years, it became his special place work through problems, to think, reflect, meditate, or simply to be alone.

They reached the top of Ponderosa Plunge just as the smallest sliver of sun showed itself along the distant line of mountains. Adam gallantly held Teresa’s horse while she dismounted, then tethered them to a place well away from the edge. They walked, hand in hand, out on the rocky promontory.

“Teresa . . . feast your eyes on that,” Adam said, gesturing broadly to the magnificent vista spread out before them, bathed in the rose pink light of sunrise. “I don’t know for certain whether or not I’ll see heaven someday, but even so . . . I can’t imagine the beauty of heaven surpassing the beauty of the Ponderosa.” [1]

“Glorious, Adam,” Teresa sighed, completely awestruck. “Nothing less than glorious.”

“I’d forgotten how beautiful the Ponderosa really is,” Adam said wistfully, as he moved in behind her and slipped his arms around her waist.

Teresa snuggled closer, placing her hands over his. “I don’t think I could ever forget a place like this,” she said, her eyes greedily drinking in the view.

“I guess it comes of growing up in a place, and taking it for granted because you see it every day,” Adam said wistfully. “I’ll never take it for granted again.”

“Do you miss the Ponderosa?” Teresa asked gently. “And the life you had here?”

“I do,” Adam confessed, gently turning her to face him. “But as much as I miss the Ponderosa and my family here, I wouldn’t trade the life WE’VE made together for a hundred thousand Ponderosas.”

Teresa threw her arms around his neck with gleeful abandon and kissed him passionately. Adam returned his wife’s kiss with equal fervor.

“I love you, Adam Cartwright.”

“ . . . and I love you, Teresa di Cordova Cartwright.”

They remained in each other’s embrace for a time, silently watching the sunrise, enjoying the view and each other’s company.

At length, Adam sighed. “We’d better be getting back to the house,” he said reluctantly. “We have a big day ahead of us.”

“No, Adam . . . not just yet,” Teresa protested, as she unfastened the top button of his shirt, and moved down to the next.

Adam gently captured Teresa’s hands, effectively stilling her wandering fingers, at least for the moment. “Sweetheart, I, uhhh . . . I don’t think this is quite the, uhhh . . . proper time?” he murmured softly, inwardly chagrined at how weak and feeble his protestations sounded in his own ears.

“ . . . and why not?”

“What if Pa . . . Hoss . . . Joe . . . or Stacy, heaven forbid . . . happen along?”

“Your brothers, My Love, are the least of our worries,” Teresa purred softly, as he raised her right hand to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on its palm. “You told me yourself that Joe doesn’t even open his eyes before eight o’clock, and that Hoss wouldn’t, in the normal course of things, even dream of leaving the house without getting a good breakfast in him.”

“True,” Adam admitted. He kissed her left palm, then brought both of her hands together within the gentle confines of his own. “ . . . that still leaves Pa and Stacy.”

“I’m sure Stacy is very much aware of, ummm . . . shall we say the facts of life? . . . by THIS time,” Teresa said. “If your father hasn’t told her himself, he’s seen to it that she’s been given information from a reliably accurate source, and there is the fact of living on a ranch with cattle, horses, and an assortment of other animals.”

“What about Pa?”

“Ohhh, I think he, of all people, would understand,” Teresa replied. “Last time I was here he let it be known that he and Marie . . . . Well, to put it delicately, your brother, Joe, was more than likely conceived right here on this very spot.”

“Pa actually TOLD you that?!” Adam looked thoroughly scandalized.

“Not in so many words, of course,” Teresa said, “but, I could read it easily enough between the lines.”

“It IS early yet,” Adam said thoughtfully. He gave his wife’s hands a gentle squeeze, then released them.

“Yes, it is,” Teresa said with a bold, lusty smile, as she returned to the delightful task of unfastening the buttons on his shirt. “They’re probably ALL sound asleep, and besides! Didn’t you tell me we’re about three miles from the house?”

“Closer to two and a half actually . . . . ” Adam reached out and removed the barrette, securing his wife’s hair at the nape of her neck.

“That’s far enough . . . . ”

 

Meanwhile, back at the house, Joe had spent the better part of the last hour giving Stacy lessons in the art of fencing. Neither had as yet gotten dressed. Joe wore a light green and white striped nightshirt that reached mid-calf and a pair of thick cotton socks. Stacy wore a pair of white and blue striped pajama pants and an oversized light blue shirt. Their weapons were the matched pair of rapiers that had belonged to the family of Joe’s mother, Marie. {2}

“That’s it, Little Sister . . . parry . . . parry . . . block, parry!”

Stacy flawlessly executed each move against an invisible adversary.

“Lunge and thrust!”

“Die, thou Foul Varlet!” Stacy cried as she lunged and skewered her imaginary opponent.

“Kid, you’re a natural,” Joe declared with a grin. “Now how would you like to put your new found skills to use?”

“Sure!” Stacy said eagerly, taking careful note of the devilish gleam in his eyes.

Joe noiselessly bounded up the stairs two at a time until he reached the first landing. There, he seized hold of the Indian blanket draped over the banister and flung it around himself with a dramatic flourish. With the fluid grace of a well-trained athlete, he vaulted over the banister, and, like a cat, landed silently on his feet. “I challenge you to a duel.”

“Oh how delightful!” Stacy exclaimed with a smile. She deftly removed Adam’s black hat from its hook next to the front door. She shoved the hat on her head and bounded up the steps two and three at a time, with rapier in hand. When she returned a scant minute later, she wore Ben’s deep maroon, almost black, robe like a cape, with the sleeves tied loosely about her neck.

“I am El Lobo, the meanest, most feared bandito south of the Rio Gran-de,” Joe declared, rolling the r’s in the last two words with a melodramatic flourish.

“ . . . and I am the Fox,” Stacy returned. She vaulted over the banister at the first landing, paused briefly to salute the photograph of Cousin Will Cartwright sitting on the end table, then turned to face her brother. “En garde.”

Their thrusts, parries, and blocks took them on a path through the living room. Stacy easily trapped him between herself and one end of the sofa. She lunged. Joe scrambled up onto the arm of the sofa in the same instant. He, then, turned, and fled across the cushions.

“You foul cheater! Come back here!” Stacy circled around behind the sofa intending to cut off his escape path.

Laboring to stifle the onset of the giggles, Joe leapt from the sofa to the coffee table, sliding across its polished surface in his stocking feet. Papers, books, brandy snifter, and humidor went flying in all directions. Stacy clamored over the back of the sofa and across the coffee table in hot pursuit. In the dining room, Joe turned to face his sister. They clashed steel with steel, giggling uproariously, until Stacy backed into one of the chairs, knocking it over.

 

The sound of wood chair striking wood floor roused Ben from a lovely dream about Parisian can-can dancers. “Someone’s gonna pay dearly for this,” he muttered to himself. He turned over, fully intending to go back to sleep, perchance to resume dream until he heard a second crash, followed immediately by a third. “What in tarnation is going on downstairs?” With an exasperated sigh, he threw the covers aside. “Hey! Where’s my robe?”

 

Meanwhile, the duel had taken “El Lobo” and “The Fox” toward the area occupied by Ben’s desk and the stacked shelves filled with books. Joe, with a feral grin on his face, slowly and relentlessly backed Stacy toward the desk with the intention of trapping her between it and himself. Stacy played into his hands, until she had come within three feet of the desk. Suddenly, she pivoted and ran, seeking refuge on the other side of the desk. The quick, sudden moves sent her wildly careening into the grandfather clock next to the front door.

“Now who’s cheatin’?” Joe cried, as he gave chase.

Once the desk loomed between her and her high-spirited brother, Stacy jumped into the desk chair, which, unbeknownst to her was mounted on casters. The chair moved under the momentum of her body, sending her careening toward the bookshelves behind the desk. A split second before collision, Stacy, with sword firmly gripped in hand half-jumped half-fell out of the chair, landing in an ungainly sprawl on the wood floor beyond. The chair struck the bookshelves hard, at the precise right angle, bringing all of the books crashing to the floor.

Giggling uproariously, Joe leapt over the piles of books and chased Stacy back into the living room, easily trapping her against one of the living room chairs. The latter jumped backwards onto the cushion and climbed up on to the back.

“I have you now, Fox,” Joe licked his lips already savoring the fruits of victory.

“You are sadly mistaken, El Lobo,” Stacy crowed. “It is I who have YOU.” She crouched to make a flying leap. The shift of weight displaced the chair and sent it falling backward.

“STACY!” Joe cried, his eyes round with shocked horror. He ran to the other side, intending to catch her. En route, his foot caught the edge of a throw rug, sending him catapulting through the air, arse overhead. Both screamed in unison, as the chair on which Stacy stood hit the floor with a loud bang. Stacy landed on top of Joe.

Brother and sister glared at each other for a long moment before helplessly dissolving into a fit of giggles.

The sound of a slamming door upstairs, followed by heavy footfalls, sobered both of them.

“Uh oh!” Stacy gulped. “That sounds like Pa!”

“We’re dead,” Joe said, before the pair dissolved into another fit of infectious giggling.

 

Ben descended to the first landing, clad in white cotton pajamas sans robe, and stopped to survey the scene below him. The desk chair lay on its side, half buried under a mound of books and bookshelves. In the living room area, papers, books, and cigars littered the floor under and around the coffee table. The brandy snifter lay on its side, its amber contents spreading across the coffee table, soaking into some of the loose papers. In the dining room, three chairs lay on their backs, as did the maroon armchair in the living room. Next to the maroon chair, he spotted his younger children, lying on the floor laughing their heads off. For one brief insane moment, Ben wavered between joining the laughter and thrashing the pair within inches of their lives.

“WHAT . . . . ” Ben started to bellow, then remembered the possibility of others sleeping upstairs. It took every ounce of will he possessed to lower his voice. “What in thunderation is going on down here?”

“M-m-mornin’, Pa,” Joe giggled. “I was just teaching Stacy how to fence.”

“Sorry . . . we got a little carried away,” Stacy giggled.

“The pair of you should be,” Ben remarked wryly, “by someone with a big butterfly net.” He deftly helped his hopelessly mirthful son and daughter to their feet, gaping in open astonishment at their make shift costumes. “What in the ever lovin’ world are the pair of you dressed up for? A Halloween party?!”

“I-I am El Lobo,” Joe said, laboring vigorously to keep a straight face, “the meanest RINGO bandito south of the Rio Grande.”

“Ringo?!” Ben echoed. A bewildered frown creased his brow.

“I think h-he m-meant GRINGO bandito s-s-south of the Rio Grande, Pa,” Stacy said, succumbing to a fresh round of the giggles.

At that moment, Adam and Teresa walked hand in hand through the front door, smiling with an almost smug contentment. Their hair was mussed, and Adam’s shirt was half tucked in with three buttons missing.

“Good morning, Adam . . . Teresa,” Joe greeted them with a sly grin. “Do you know your hair is tangled with pine needles?”

“No, but if you hum a few bars, I might be able to fake it,” Teresa said smoothly, without missing a beat.

Joe and Stacy collapsed in unison onto the sofa in a fit incapacitating laughter.

Ben tried his best to maintain some shred of dignity. He pulled himself up to full height and glared down at his two younger children. “Stacy . . . . ”

“Y-yeah, Pa?”

“May I have my robe back please?”

“Yes, Sir.” Still laughing, Stacy rose unsteadily to her feet. She untied the sleeves and removed her make shift cape with a dramatic flourish. The sudden body movements caused her to lose her balance. She collapsed back down onto the sofa, with tears of mirth streaming down her cheeks.

Adam quietly surveyed the scene, taking due noting of the rapiers in the hands of his youngest brother and only sister. “Well, Pa,” he said, grinning broadly, “it looks like that old adage is true after all.”

Ben turned his back on his family to mask his growing struggle not to laugh. SOMEONE had to be the grown-up, and maintain some degree of discipline amid the surrounding chaos. As clan patriarch, it appeared that duty fell to him. “ . . . and what old adage is that?” Ben asked, as he slipped on his robe and tied the sash.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Adam said with a broad grin. “Now I truly feel like I’ve come home again.”

“Come on,” Ben said, succumbing at last to the heady contagion of laughter, in spite of his best intentions. “We’d better get this place clean before Hop Sing wakes up, if we know what’s good for us.”

 

Hoss smiled contentedly as the sun shining through his bedroom window gently warmed his face, rousing him from the depths of sleep. He slowly eased himself from a prone to a sitting position, and stretched luxuriously. Downstairs, the grandfather clock struck the hour of seven.

“ . . . nope, eight o’clock,” Hoss mused, reaching for the robe stretched across the foot of his bed. He frowned as the clock struck nine, ten, and eleven times. “Dadburn it, I’ve overslept and missed breakfast.” He quickly slipped his robe on over his nightshirt, and tied the sash. The clock struck twelve as he crossed the room, making a beeline for the closed door, followed by thirteen.

Hoss froze mid-stride, his hand on the doorknob. “Thirteen?”

The clock struck fourteen, then fifteen, followed by an odd clanking sound. Hoss quickly stepped into the hall, pausing briefly to close the bedroom door behind him. At the top landing, Hoss froze as his eyes took in the state of chaos on the first floor. An easy chair lay on its back, as did three of the chairs in the dining room area. Ben and Adam worked furiously gathering together the former’s books, spread over a wide debris field stretching from the study to the living room area. Teresa was busy sopping up the spilled brandy from the top of the coffee table, while Stacy gathered the sodden papers and carried them outside to dry.

“Pa?”

Ben looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Hoss. Come on down and give us a hand. I want this place ship shape by the time Hop Sing wakes up.”

“What happened?” Hoss asked, as he made his way down the stairs. “The place looks like a dadburn tornado hit it!”

“The place was hit by TWO dadburn tornados, Big Brother,” Adam said sardonically. “Their names are Joe and Stacy.”

“I asked Joe to teach me a little about fencing,” Stacy said sheepishly.

Hoss rolled his eyes. “Dadburn it, Li’l Sister, the NEXT time ya take it in your head to ask Li’l Joe t’ teach ya somethin’, ask him to teach ya OUTSIDE.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Ben agreed wryly. He paused, just long enough to glance over the sea of faces. “Speaking of Joseph, where is he?”

Smiling, Teresa put her finger to her lips and pointed at the sofa. Adam, Hoss, Ben, and Stacy moved in for a closer look. There, on the sofa lay Joe Cartwright, snoozing in blissful oblivion to the flurry of activity happening around him on all sides.

Adam and Hoss exchanged glances and nodded. The former took Joe’s feet and the latter his head and shoulders. Together they lifted their slumbering baby brother, taking great care not to wake him, and started toward the front door. Stacy immediately ran over and opened the door. Hoss and Adam nodded their thanks as they carried Joe over the threshold and out of the house. Ben, Stacy, and Teresa followed. The two elder Cartwright brothers carried the still somnolent baby boy of the family over to the water trough and tossed him in.

Joe surfaced coughing and sputtering.

“Time to wakey, wakey, Baby Brother!” Adam said with an evil grin.

“Whaddya tryin’ to do?” Joe demanded, outraged. “Drown me?”

“Now don’t you go puttin’ temptin’ thoughts like that in my head, Li’l Brother,” Hoss cautioned, favoring Joe with a dark, angry glare.

“What did I do?” Joe asked, looking from Adam and Hoss, over to his father, sister, and sister-in-law.

“You didn’t do a blessed thing,” Adam replied with a complacent smile.

 

“MICK! MICK! WE GOT OURSELVES A PROBLEM!”

Mick O’Flynn looked up and saw his young partner and protégée, Barney Murphy, running up the street frantically waving his hands. Mick was a short, thin and wiry elderly man, exact age indeterminate, with thinning, gray almost white hair, and alert, all-seeing dark brown eyes. He walked with a pronounced limp, due in part to the severe arthritis in virtually every joint in his body. He always wore the same black pair of pants and black jacket, both of which were threadbare at the knees and elbows. Today, he had on a clean, though wrinkled, cream colored long sleeved shirt.

O’Flynn stopped to allow the younger man to catch up. “What is it, Barney?”

“I caught Sheriff Coffee nosin’ out where . . . . ” Barney lowered his voice, “you know.”

Mick scowled. This was the fourth time this week either he or Barney had spotted Roy Coffee out snooping around dangerously near the spot where they had Matilda, their new still, hidden. The sheriff had his suspicions, no denying that now. “Barney, did Sheriff Coffee see you?” he asked.

Barney shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mister O’Flynn.”

“That’s a relief,” Mick slowly let out the breath he had been holding. He now had two enormous problems facing him square in the face, however. The second problem was moving his beloved Matilda, under the eagle eye of Sheriff Roy Coffee. The first, and most pressing, was finding another place to move her.

This could not have happened at a worse time. The reception following the Wedding of the Century was to be held in the basement room of the church. The Ladies’ Guild, under the leadership of Myra Danvers had absolutely forbidden the serving of alcoholic beverages within the church building and on church grounds. Most of the men of Virginia City, along with a fair number if its women, had placed their orders with him, so that they might smuggle in their own bottles. To date, Mick O’Flynn had only filled one-third of the pending orders. “Where’s the good sheriff now, Barney?”

“In his office,” Barney replied.

“Good,” Mick said. “Now I want you to keep an eye on ‘im, but for heaven’s sake, BE DISCREET.”

“Sure, Mister O’Flynn.”

“Now be off with y’, Lad. I have some work to do.”

 

Hoss leaned against the corral fence watching Stacy putting Sun Dancer through his paces. From the moment she connected with the saddle, her spirit and that of the magnificent golden palomino stallion seemed to merge, and from that merging flowed together as one. Not a word of command was spoken, yet Sun Dancer moved from a walk, to a trot, to a cantor, and a full gallop, and back again as easily, and seamlessly as a concert pianist moves his fingers up and down the length of black and white keys, practicing basic scales.

“I could stand here all day and watch those two,” Candy said as he stepped up to the fence next to Hoss.

“Yeah, I know whatcha mean,” Hoss agreed.

“Your pa decided yet what he’s gonna do with Sun Dancer?”

“He ain’t f’r sale, that’s for dadburn sure,” Hoss replied with a grin. “We all agreed on THAT pretty early on. Other ‘n that, he’s a good saddle horse, if ‘n the rider’s able to handle him.”

“You think Mister Cartwright’ll want to try breeding him?”

Hoss nodded and grinned. “I think Pa decided that pretty early on, too. Li’l Sister wants t’ ride him in the Virginia City Race comin’ up in September.”

“Oh yeah?!” Candy looked over at Hoss, mildly surprised. “What did your father say about that?”

“Nothin’, ‘cause we ain’t mentioned it to him yet.”

“Ain’t mentioned WHAT to him yet?”

Hoss turned and found himself standing face to face with his father. Stacy’s friend, Molly O’Hanlan, smiled and nodded as she stepped up to the corral fence on the other side of Ben. “Oh, Pa, it’s nothing’ important . . . . ” he hedged.

“Hoss . . . . ”

He flinched away from the stern glare on Ben’s face. “Stacy ‘n I wanted to wait f’r a better time, like maybe when this Weddin’ of the Century’s done ‘n over . . . . ”

“What is it, Son?”

Hoss sighed. “Stacy just happened to kinda mention that she, uuhhh . . . she wants t’ ride Sun Dancer in, uuhhh . . . the Virginia City Race comin’ up?!”

“I hope you haven’t told her she could!” Ben said, leveling a ferocious scowl in Hoss’ general direction.

“Pa, I’d NEVER tell her she could do something like that, without checkin’ with YOU first.”

“Good! Because I’m not so sure I want my daughter . . . . ”

“Not even if she ‘n Sun Dancer are practically shoe ins t’ win that race?”

This drew a sharp glare from his father.

“We . . . Candy, here, an’ me . . . paced the pair of ‘em out on the road a couple o’ weeks ago,” Hoss continued. “Sun Dancer beat our Bonnie Prince Charlie by a mile, without even workin’ up much of a sweat.”

“Really?”

“Three times outta THREE, Mister Cartwright.”

“Granted, I allow the girl a lot of leeway, but I have to draw the line some---” Ben stopped abruptly, and looked from Hoss over to Candy, then back once more to Hoss. “Did you fellas say THREE out of three?”

Hoss grinned. “We sure did, Pa.”

“Sun Dancer left Bonnie Prince Charlie eating his dust,” Candy added.

“Bonnie Prince Charlie, of course is almost as fast as Blake Wilson’s General Ulysses,” Ben mulled the matter over thoughtfully.

“That’s right, Sir . . . ALMOST,” Candy said.

“Almost is the reason you been comin’ in second to Blake Wilson’s FIRST f’r the last three years in a row,” Hoss added meaningfully.

“But . . . if Sun Dancer can beat Bonnie Prince Charlie, then he could probably, very easily beat . . . . ”

“Umm hmmmm!” Hoss and Candy chorused and nodded their heads in unison.

“No!” Ben vigorously shook his head, as if trying to physically dislodge all the lovely errant thoughts suddenly taking up residence. “Letting Stacy rope cattle and train horses here on the Ponderosa is one thing, but . . . . ”

“But?” Hoss prompted.

“Blake and General Ulysses HAVE won the Virginia City Race for the past three years in a row, haven’t they?” Ben queried, his thoughts churning a mile a minute.

“They sure have, Pa.”

“ . . . and . . . in all fairness, of course . . . I suppose it’s . . . well, it’s . . . about time someone ELSE had a turn . . . . ”

“Yeah,” Hoss agreed.

“ . . . in all fairness,” Candy agreed, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Of course I COULD have JOSEPH ride Sun Dancer . . . . ”

“Yeah . . . I s’pose you could at that,” Hoss reluctantly agreed. “But, STACY’S the one who’s been workin’ with him the most, an’ workin’ HARD as all get out, too.”

“ . . . and not only that, Mister Cartwright, but Stacy’s gotta be a good twenty-five . . . maybe even thirty pounds lighter,” Candy pressed.

“That’s all very true,” Ben had to admit. “Let me think about it . . . . ”

“Mister Cartwright?” Molly O’Hanlan spoke up for the first time.

“Yes, Molly?” Ben responded contritely. In the course of the conversation with Hoss and Candy, he had forgotten she was even there.

“You really going to let Stacy race Sun Dancer in the Virginia City Race?” she queried, her eyes shining with excitement.

“I’m THINKING about it, Molly,” Ben said. “That’s NOT the same as making a decision . . . and it’s still a far cry from saying yes.” He punctuated this last with a hard meaningful glance at Candy and Hoss, as well.

“I sure hope you let her enter that race, Mister Cartwright,” Molly declared stoutly. “I KNOW Stacy and Sun Dancer’ll beat the pants off of any and all contenders.”

Ben laughed. “Oh, all right!” he acquiesced. “You’ve convinced me! Stacy CAN ride Sun Dancer in the Virginia City Race.”

“Whoa, Sun Dancer,” Stacy said, drawing up along side the fence where her brother, Hoss, Candy, and best friend Molly, whooped it up, yelling at the tops of their lungs. “Hey, Pa, what’s all the excitement about?”

“Go ahead, Pa . . . I think YOU oughtta be the one to tell her.”

“I’ve just decided that you can ride Sun Dancer in the Virginia City Race this year,” Ben said, smiling.

“Oh, Pa, really?!” Stacy’s smile seemed to light up her entire face, as she quickly dismounted and tethered Sun Dancer to the fence. “Really and TRULY?”

“Yes, really and truly!”

Stacy stepped up onto one of the lower slats of the corral fence, bringing her eye-to-eye with Ben. “I think you’re the best pa in the whole wide world!” she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big affectionate bear hug.

Ben slipped his arms around her and returned that hug with equal exuberance. “I hope that’s not just because I’m letting you ride in that race,” he said, half teasing.

“It IS, partly,” Stacy admitted, “but it’s mostly because it’s true.” She hugged him again, then jumped down off the corral fence. The instant her feet made contact with the ground, Sun Dancer gently nudged her arm, then pointedly lowered his muzzle toward the pocket where she kept the treats.

“Stacy?!” Molly watched Sun Dancer with a bemused expression on her face. “What in the world is he doing?”

“He’s just reminding me that he’s had a good, long, hard workout this morning,” Stacy said, as she dug her hand into the bottom right hand pocket of the light jacket she wore, “and he expects to be properly rewarded.” She extracted a generous handful of treats and offered them to the golden palomino. “You did good, Sun Dancer, you did REAL good!”

“Wow! He’s one smart horse!” Molly exclaimed in awe.

“He sure is,” Ben agreed. “In fact, I’m surprised Sun Dancer’s not the one training Hoss, Stacy, and Candy.”

“F’r all WE know, he just may be, Pa,” Hoss said with a chuckle.

“Molly, everything alright?” Stacy asked, noting the troubled expression on her friend’s face.

“Yes . . . NO!” Molly sighed. “You’re never going to guess who came to see my sister last night.”

“It wasn’t . . . Apollo Nikolas by any chance . . . w-was it?” Hoss queried looking ill.

“Yes, it was!” Molly exclaimed, looking over at Hoss in mild surprise. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Hoss said. “Just kinda took a wild guess.” He felt grateful beyond measure that his baby brother wasn’t present.

“What happened?” Stacy asked, as she absently stroked Sun Dancer on the side of his neck.

Molly took a deep breath and told the Cartwrights all that had transpired the evening before, blushing at the memory of Apollo dancing around with her in his arms.

Ben, Hoss, Stacy, even Candy laughed out loud, as they envisioned the very prim and proper Mrs. O’Hanlan breaking up a potential fist fight by brandishing a broom.

“ . . . and . . . and in front of the like of Myra Danvers and . . . H-Hannah Adams, of all people,” Ben murmured, as he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes.

“S-sorry, Molly,” Stacy apologized. “I know it’s NOT funny . . . yet it IS.”

“I guess the thought of Ma running out into the street brandishing that broom like the Irish warrior queen, Maeve, IS kind of funny,” Molly admitted with a smile.

“I sure wish I couldda seen the look on Widow Danvers’ face,” Hoss chuckled.

“Me, too!” Candy voiced his own wholehearted agreement with a grin.

“Easy! It probably looked something like this,” Stacy rendered a grotesquely comic impersonation of Mrs. Danvers’ outraged face.

“Y-yes . . . . ” Molly laughed uproariously. “That’s it . . . that’s it exactly!”

“Y’ oughtta h-have . . . m-more respect far your elders, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said, as he, Ben, and Candy laughed along with Molly.

“Now y-you’re starting to sound like . . . like Grandpa, Hoss,” Stacy also joined in the laughter.

“Dadburn it!” Hoss growled with mock severity. “Where do you get off insultin’ me?”

“That’s not meant to be an insult, Big Brother, only a warning to mend your ways NOW . . . while you still have a chance.”

“But . . . surely Apollo Nikolas wasn’t thinking he was going to pick up with Colleen where he’d left off,” Ben said, sobering. “It’s been nearly ten years!”

“I think he WAS thinking that, Mister Cartwright,” Molly said, “and from the sound of things, he’s going to go right on thinking that until Colleen sets him straight.”

“I can’t believe that,” Ben said shaking his head.

“Apollo’s gotta good head on his shoulders, Pa,” Hoss said, “but there’s some things he just ain’t smart about at all.”

“Boy! Looks like ol’ Grandpa was right when he said Apollo Nikolas’ arrival was going to make things very interesting,” Stacy said shaking her head.

“Hmpf! Apollo Nikolas’ arrival last night made things a little too interesting to suit me,” Molly declared indignantly. “If COLLEEN doesn’t set him straight soon, so help me . . . I will.”

“I’m sure Colleen will, Molly,” Ben hastened to reassure her. “In the meantime, would you like to join us for dinner? We’ll be eating within the next hour of so.”

“I don’t know,” Molly looked very uncertain. “You DO have company . . . . ”

“Don’t you worry none ‘bout that, Molly,” Hoss said with a grin. “There’s still plenty o’ room for an extra plate.”

“In that case, I WILL stay,” Molly said. She turned to Ben and smiled. “Thank you for inviting me, Mister Cartwright.”

“My pleasure.”

“Stacy, why don’t you g’won back to the house with Pa and Molly?” Hoss said. “Candy and I can look after Sun Dancer.”

“Thanks, Big Brother.”

“I also have a fitting appointment with Madame Darnier this afternoon,” Molly said, as she, Stacy, and Ben walked from the corral toward the house. “Maid of honor dress for the wedding.”

“I have a final fitting appointment with Madame Darnier this afternoon, too,” Stacy said.

“You?!” Molly stared at her best friend with open skepticism.

Stacy rolled her eyes. “Yes, me,” she sighed. “For some reason Pa here doesn’t think my boots and britches are appropriate for me to wear to a wedding.”

“That’s right,” Ben agreed wholeheartedly, then smiled. “I was also looking for an excuse to force your brother into that monkey suit of his.”

“You should’ve told me, Pa,” Stacy teased, linking her arm through his. “I would’ve approached this whole thing with a lot more enthusiasm.”

“Which suit is the monkey suit?” Molly asked, with an inquisitive smile.

“The blue one,” Ben and Stacy said in unison.

“The blue one?” Molly echoed, with a puzzled frown. “Really?”

Stacy nodded.

“Gee, I think Joe looks . . . . ” Molly blushed, clear down to the roots of her hair, “ . . . well let’s just say he looks awfully darned handsome in that suit.”

“Molly, puh-leese . . . do Pa, Hoss, Hop Sing, and me a favor and don’t EVER tell him you said that,” Stacy begged.

“Why NOT?” Molly asked.

“For one thing, Molly . . . I don’t think they make hats that big,” Hoss quipped with an impish grin.

“In any case, Molly, the entire family’s going to be there for Stacy’s fitting,” Ben said. “You can ride back to town with us.”

Molly’s jaw dropped. She looked over at Ben through eyes round as saucers, then back to Stacy. “All of you?” she squeaked. “Really?”

“Yep!” Stacy confirmed. “Like Candy said yesterday, they’re all going to be there with bells on.”

“C-Candy’s going to be there, too?”

“Pa said the entire family,” Stacy said, smiling at her friend’s astonishment.

“Wow!” Molly shook her head. “My pa and brother say they wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like Madame Darnier’s.”

“Molly, we Cartwright men happen to take a very keen interest in our Cartwright woman’s choice of wardrobe,” Ben said.

“They sure do.” The tone of her voice and impish twinkle in her eyes drew a warning glare from her father.

“We feel it’s our duty and responsibility,” Ben continued in a solemn tone of voice, “in a loving, supportive way, of course.”

“Oh, Mister Cartwright, I think that’s wonderful.”

“Stacy Rose Cartwright, not one word,” Ben warned sotto voce, upon seeing his daughter smile and roll her eyes.

 

“Oohh, Mick . . . I dunno!”

“Why not?” the grizzled, elderly man pressed. “It’s the last place anyone’d even THINK t’ look for a still!”

“I STILL dunno. Whut iffen t’ reverend . . . . ?”

“Macon Fitzhugh, y’ just got through tellin’ me t’ good reverend never goes down there.”

“Usually, he don’t,” Macon whined. He was a tall man, with slightly stooped posture, thin arms and legs and a pronounced paunch at the waistline. His late wife, God rest her soul, and oldest sister derisively referred to it as his ‘beer belly.’ The slight downward sweep of his bushy, iron gray eyebrows, the round, staring pale blue eyes, the very set of the planes of his face, and the deeply etched lines in his forehead and around his mouth marked him as a chronic worrier.

“All right, then,” Mick said, grinning from ear-to-ear. “What’s the problem?”

“The Weddin’ reception’s gonna be held down there,” Macon fretted, wringing his hands.

“Didn’t y’ tell me yourself that the church is puttin’ in a woodstove?” Mick pressed.

“Well, yeah, but . . . . ”

“Alright, then.” Mick’s grin broadened into a bright, sunny smile. “If t’ good reverend asks questions, we’ll tell ‘im it’s the woodstove.”

“I dunno, Mick, I just . . . dunno,” Macon groaned, wagging his head back and forth. “It seems kinda sacrilegious somehow . . . . ”

“Macon, y’ oughtta be ashamed o’ yourself,” Mick chided him severely. “How can y’ possibly look me in t’ eye an’ call yourself a deacon and caretaker o’ the church, when you’re so ignorant o’ the Holy Scriptures?”

“Hunh?”

“Didn’t Jesus turned the water into fine wine at the weddin’ o’ Cana?”

“Yeah . . . ”

“ . . . an’ don’t the Holy Gospels themselves talk of Jesus blessin’ the bread AND T’ WINE at t’ Last Supper?”

“Well . . . yeah . . . . ”

“Alright, then! Seein’ as t’ how Our Lord Himself indulged in strong spirits, then tell me this . . . if y’ can; how can a still in t’ church basement be sacrilegious?”

Macon opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut, unable to think of anything to say.

“Macon, it’ll only be ‘til after The Weddin’,” Mick said, savoring his impending victory. It was all he could do to keep from rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “By then t’ heat will’ve died down, an’ I’ll be able t’ safely move m’ Sweet Matilda elsewhere.”

“Well, ok, those few days can’t hurt none, I s’pose,” Macon agreed very reluctantly.

“Grand! That’s just grand!,” Mick replied with a smug grin. “Meet me tonight at the Silver Dollar at eight sharp, with the church key.”

 

 

End of Part 1.

 

***

 

1\. A paraphrase of the opening line of Bonanza Episode #1, “A Rose For Lotta,” written by David Dortort. In the interest of giving credit where credit is due, that first scene in “A Rose For Lotta,” where Ben and Adam stand together looking out upon a magnificent stretch of landscape was inspiration for this scene, in which Adam takes his wife to that same overlook the first morning of their visit.

2\. This scene, in which Joe teaches his sister the art of fencing, also draws its inspiration from “A Rose From Lotta.”


	2. Chapter 2

Myrna O’Hanlan, reigning matriarch of the O’Hanlan Clan, relentlessly paced, back and forth to and fro, before the parlor fireplace. For the past nine years, she had suffered humiliation piled upon humiliation each time Colleen and Matt got themselves engaged, called it off, got themselves engaged again, only to repeat the vicious cycle over and over and over, ad nauseum.

 

“Francis, you’ve GOT to speak to YOUR DAUGHTER,” she had lamented the last time Colleen had broken off her engagement to Matt. “You’ve simply got to! Lord Above knows she WON’T listen to ME!”

“What is it THIS time?” her husband queried with that long suffering sigh, and accompanying roll of his eyes, guaranteed to set even the most patient of saints and martyrs’ teeth on edge.

“HELLFIRE AND DAMNATION!” she screeched, “MAYBE YOU DON’T GIVE A BLOODY TINKER’S DAMN ABOUT YOUR FAMILY’S REPUTATION, ALL THE WORSE FOR YOU; BUT I DO!”

Francis muttered something under his breath, something she didn’t quite hear, then raised the newspaper in hand up to cover his face, with a very pointed rustle.

She had crossed the entire length of the parlor in three giant strides, borne along by her rising fury. With a swift, powerful swipe of her arm, she snatched the newspaper from her startled husband’s hands and threw it down on the floor.

Francis leapt to his feet, his eyes blazing with fury. “DAMMIT, WOMAN . . . WHAT’S THIS WORLD COMIN’ TO WHEN A MAN CAN’T HAVE ENOUGH OF A MOMENT’S PEACE IN THE EVENING T’ SIT DOWN AND READ THE PAPER!?” he demanded. “HALF AN HOUR! HALF AN HOUR, MYRNA . . . IS THAT REALLY SO MUCH TO ASK?!”

“ONCE!” she snapped. “JUST ONCE I’D LIKE TO BA ABLE TO WALK DOWN THE STREET WITHOUT HAVING TO BEAR WITH ALL THE SMILES, THE SIMPERING, THE PITYING LOOKS I’VE HAD TO ENDURE FROM EVERYONE I CHANCE TO PASS!”

“I just know I’m gonna hate myself for askin’ but WHY are you havin’ to bear with all the smiles, the simpering, the pitying looks from everyone you chance to pass by on the street?” Francis wearily demanded.

“Because our family has become the absolute laughing stock of everyone in Virginia City,” she replied. “For eight years, Francis . . . for eight . . . very long . . . very humiliating . . . YEARS!”

“Who says so?! Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Danvers??” Francis growled as he circled the room, snatching the pages of his newspaper up off the floor, one by one. “Uhhh . . . I should’ve KNOWN!” he exclaimed when she didn’t immediately reply. “ONCE! JUST ONCE . . . I WISH THOSE TWO HARPIES WOULD MIND THEIR OWN BLOODY DAMNED BUSINESS AND LET THE REST OF US GO ABOUT OUR OWN . . . . ”

 

“Myrna!” Francis O’Hanlan snapped, drawing his wife from her angry musings. He snapped the book in hand shut with a curt, audible sigh of exasperation. “Would you PLEASE stop that infernal pacing?! You’re gonna wear a trench in that Persian rug you sent all the way to London for!”

“Francis Sean O’Hanlan, if you were the kind o’ father you ought to be, I’d have no need to be pacing a trench in my Persian rug,” Myrna cried in outrage. “Colleen would’ve been happily married a long time ago, if not to Matt Wilson, then to some other fine gentlemen, instead o’ goin’ through this . . . this . . . this nonsensical folderol with Matt for the last eight goin’ on NINE years . . . Frankie wouldn’t be castin’ calf eyes at that . . . that SALOON girl . . . . ” she grimaced, “and Molly, bless her heart, would have friends among some of the decent, respectable young people, who live right here in town.”

“By decent, respectable young people, who live right here in town, I take it y’ really mean the likes of Millicent Adams and Pruella Danvers.”

“That would be a very fine start, certainly . . . . ”

“With friends like the two o’ THEM, a body has no need of enemies,” Francis acerbically observed.

“They’d be a sight lot better than that Cartwright girl!” Myrna cried, indignant and outraged.

“You listen to me, Woman, and you listen good!” Francis said sternly. “Molly couldn’t ask for a better or more loyal friend than Stacy Cartwright. Her friendship with Stacy and the rest of the Cartwrights, too, for that matter have been the making of that girl.”

“Oh, they’ve been the makin’ of our daughter alright . . . from a sweet, demure young lady to a complete hoyden!”

“I was more thinkin’ from a girl scared t’ death of her own shadow to a young woman who can stand up on her own two feet,” Francis argued.

“You mark my words those Cartwrights’ll get our daughter and our son, too as much as HE’S always hangin’ around ‘em, into big trouble one o’ these days. They will! You just mark my words, Francis O’Hanlan.”

“The Cartwrights are a fine, upstandin’ family, Myrna. Most folks in these parts hold ‘em in very high regard. I’ll not hear another word against ‘em,” Francis said sternly. “As for Frankie, he’ll get over his puppy love for Miss Clarissa Starling, ‘specially since SHE won’t give ‘im the time o’ day.”

“WHAT?!”

You heard me, Myrna!”

“So! My son’s not good enough for t’ likes o’ her?”

Francis rolled his eyes heavenward, begging the powers that be for patience and strength.

“ . . . and what of Colleen?”

“Colleen’s got to make up her own mind,” Francis said. “Which it would seem she has! The wedding’s t’ take place the day after tomorrow.”

“Assuming that blackguard Apollo Nikolas doesn’t put a wrench in things,” Myrna said darkly.

Francis frowned. “I thought we made things clear to him last night.”

“Ooohhh . . . we made things clear to him last night alright,” Myrna said, in a blatantly sarcastic tone of voice. “So clear, he’s been back around twice more today, demanding to see Colleen.”

“Where IS Colleen?”

“Upstairs in her room,” Myrna sighed. “She STILL won’t come out. She refuses to see Apollo, of course, and she won’t see Matt either.”

Francis rose, folded the newspaper in his hands, and placed it down on the sofa. “I’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said.

 

Francis, his jaw set in grim determination, resolutely climbed the stairs to the second floor. He walked down the hall to the fast closed door to Colleen’s room, and knocked.

“Go away!” Colleen half yelled-half sobbed from within.

“Colleen, it’s your pa,” Francis said firmly.

“Pa?! Ma’s not with you?”

“No, she’s not.”

“Ok, YOU can come in,” Colleen acquiesced.

Francis O’Hanlan opened the door and stepped into his eldest daughter’s room. Still clad in nightgown and robe at this late hour, she sat on the bed, staring down at her hands clasped in her lap. He could see by her face that she had recently been crying. “Now, now, what’s this?” he queried gently, seating himself on the edge of her bed.

“Oh, Pa, I’m not so sure I wanna g-go through with this,” Colleen sobbed.

“Go through with what?” Francis asked.

“The wedding,” Colleen wailed. “Pa, seeing Apollo again last night, I . . . well I’m not so sure I really want to go through with it.”

“What? Colleen, it’s been nine . . . goin’ on ten years now, since Apollo left Virginia City. In all that time, how many times did you write him?”

“I . . . I wrote him every day,” Colleen sobbed. “Every s-s-single d-day for . . . f-for . . . for three whole months!”

“ . . . and how often did HE write YOU?”

“H-He . . . he n-never did. That’s why I . . . I st-stopped writing him.”

“All right, then,” Francis said. “Lass, for the life o’ me . . . I don’t know what Apollo’s problem is. As for you, well, you’ve got a decent man who loves ya and wants to marry ya. He’s stuck by you with all the patience of a saint for the last nine years. Nine YEARS, Colleen . . . nine LONG years. But, a man’ll only wait so long, even a patient soul like Matt. One MORE cancellation could very well be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back.”

“I know that, Pa . . . . ”

“Colleen, you’re probably just sufferin’ the worst case of the jitters that ever hit a bride-t’-be, about to be hitched,” Francis explained.

“I s’pose . . . . ” Colleen murmured softly, “but Pa . . . what if it isn’t a case of the jitters?”

“Take it from me, Pumpkin, it is,” Francis hastened to assure her. “The next time Uncle Tim comes to visit, ask him how your ma was t’ night before OUR weddin’. I know HE could tell ya stories that’ll make your blood curdle.”

Colleen sighed.

“You know what you need to do, Colleen? Get yourself out of here. Do some shopping . . . or, better yet, why don’t you rent one o’ the nags from the Livery Stable and go for a ride?”

“A ride would be nice,” Colleen said in a small voice.

“Molly’s gone with Ben Cartwright out to the Ponderosa t’ see Stacy, but you might ask one o’ your girl friends to go with you.”

“I think it might do me more good to be alone for a little while, Pa. I could think things through, maybe work out all the jitters I’m feelin’ . . . . ”

“That’s m’ girl,” Francis said approvingly.

“Can you do me a tremendously big favor, Pa?”

“Sure . . . . ”

“Can you sneak me out past Ma?” Colleen begged. “I . . . I just can’t cope with her right now.”

Francis chuckled. “I understand, Pumpkin, and I’ll be more ‘n happy t’ run interference.”

Colleen threw her arms around her father and hugged him tight for a moment. “Thanks, Pa,” she whispered impulsively kissing his cheek.

“Anytime, Lass, any time,” Francis said, giving her an affectionate squeeze in return.

 

Colleen O’Hanlan, heading on the road south out of Virginia City, impulsively untied the scarf from around her head to allow the wind, generated by the forward movement of her horse, to blow through her hair. She angrily banished all thoughts of Matt Wilson, Apollo Nikolas, her impending nuptials, and her over bearing mother from her mind that she might better savor the magnificent scenery surrounding her on all sides, and the solitude.

Her destination was the large meadow along the south road, roughly half way between Virginia City and the Ponderosa. A brook ran through the meadow. Near the edge of the brook, amid a copse of trees was a large rock. Colleen O’Hanlan had been coming to this spot since she was in grade school, whenever she needed to get away by herself.

She reached her spot in record time, thanks to Mortimer, the large, sprightly gelding she had leased from the Livery Stable. As she approached her special place, she frowned. There was another horse, tethered outside the copse of trees.

“Hello!” Colleen called out, her rising anger and frustration apparent in her tone of voice. The last thing she needed or wanted was to share this special place with another, especially today.

“Colleen, I’ve been waiting for you.” It was Apollo Nikolas, stepping out from the copse of trees.

Colleen stared down at him, her eyes round with horrified astonishment. Her mouth moved, but no words or sound issued forth.

“Your ma wouldn’t let me see you,” Apollo said, by way of explanation. “She wouldn’t even tell you that I had stopped by. I knew you’d come here, sooner or later . . . . ”

“A-Apollo . . . ” she slowly recovered her voice, “d-didn’t Ma tell you . . . that I . . . that I’m getting married to Matt Wilson . . . th-the day after tomorrow?”

Apollo looked up at her, his face a mask of shock and horror. “No,” he shook his head. “Colleen, no . . . that . . . that can’t be!”

“Apollo, what the bloody hell did you expect?!” Colleen demanded angrily, with tears streaming down her face. “I haven’t heard a thing from you in nearly ten years! TEN YEARS, Apollo! No hello, goodbye, I love you, wish you were here, kiss m’ arse . . . NOTHING! What the hell did you expect me to do . . . take an oath of celibacy like a nun!? For all I knew, you might’ve been dead!”

“Colleen, I wrote you long letters almost everyday,” Apollo protested, taken aback by her angry outburst.

“Did you bother to MAIL any of them?” she asked scathingly.

“Of COURSE I did!”

Colleen looked down at him, openly skeptical. Yes something in his face, his eyes, told her he was telling the truth. She moved to dismount. “Apollo, I . . . I wrote YOU every day, too . . . leastwise the first couple of months after you’d left. But after not hearing one word back from YOU, I . . . I stopped writing,” she said, as he gallantly helped her down from her mount’s back.

“I DID write you, Colleen, I swear . . . on t’ graves of BOTH my parents, I SWEAR. The very last letter I wrote you was three months ago, when my ship put in to San Francisco to let you know that I was coming home for good,” Apollo said.

“I believe you, Apollo,” Colleen said quietly, wiping away her tears with the heel of her hand. “I just don’t understand . . . what could have happened to all those letters . . . yours AND mine?”

Apollo’s mouth hardened onto a thin angry line. “Your pa must have intercepted and destroyed them,” he said tersely.

“No,” Colleen vigorously shook her head. “Pa would NEVER do a thing like that, never. My ma on the other hand . . . . ”

She gasped as the truth suddenly dawned on her with an almost blinding intensity. Memories of her mother inviting the Wilsons to dinner less than a month after she had received Apollo’s last letter . . . practically shoving her and Matt out on the porch, so they might talk together “without the young ones or the old fuddy-duddies butting in” . . . making sure she and Matt sat together at picnics and church socials . . . danced almost all of the dances together at the community balls, and parties given by friends and neighbors . . . .

Colleen shook her head, feeling more confused than ever.

“Colleen, do you love Matt Wilson?” Apollo asked, gently placing his hands on her shoulders.

Colleen dolefully shook her head. “I thought I did, right up until you showed up on our door step last night,” she said. “Now . . . I don’t know! I honestly . . . don’t . . . know.”

“I think I can clear things up quickly and easily,” Apollo said. He took her in his arms and kissed her with tenderness and passion.

Shocked by his bold move, Colleen initially stood stiff and rigid in his arms. The less than a second, however, she relaxed and pressed closer, returning his kiss with an almost greedy passion. “No,” Colleen murmured, when their lips at long last parted. “God help me, I DON’T love Matt. NOW, I’m not sure I ever did.” She shook her head again. “Maybe that’s why we’ve carried on as we have for all these years. Oh, Apollo . . . WHAT am I going to do?”

“What you’re NOT going to do is marry Matt Wilson,” Apollo said in a gentle, yet firm tone.

“It’s . . . it’s too late for me to back out now, Apollo,” Colleen said dismally. “All the food, and dresses are bought and paid for . . . the whole of Virginia City’s on pins and needles waiting for the Wedding of the Century . . . all the embarrassment I’ve heaped on m’ ma after all the times I kept breakin’ it off with Matt . . . ” Her words gave way to a torrent of tears, born out of the hopeless despair that had risen up from within, and threatened to engulf her.

“Don’t cry, Love, please don’t cry,” Apollo put his arms around Colleen and held her close. “We’ve got ‘til Saturday to figure out SOMETHING!”

 

“It is most unusual for all of the MEN in the family to come for a fitting, Mam’selle Stacy,” Madame Camille Darnier, the premier dress maker in Virginia City, remarked as she helped Stacy into a dress still half held together with pins and basting.

“I’m sorry, Madame Darnier,” Stacy said. “I had no idea it was all gonna come to this when Pa made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Oh?” Camille queried, as an amused smile began to tug hard at the corner of her mouth. “And just what, exactly, was the nature of this offer?”

“Pa said he would forget the last three advances he’d made on my allowance,” Stacy replied. “It meant the difference between me getting my allowance next week instead of next YEAR.”

“I see,” Camille chuckled softly and shook her head, “and no apologies are necessary. I think it’s a fine thing . . . a very fine thing indeed to see the men of a family taking so keen an interest in what their women folk wear.”

“It’s not so much them taking an interest as it is they don’t trust me,” Stacy sighed. “My brother, Joe, actually convinced Pa that I’m having a dress made like . . . well, like the dresses the girls at the Silver Dollar wear.”

“I am sure you went to your papa and with silver tongue and honeyed tone, convinced him otherwise,” Camille said with smug satisfaction.

“I tried, but I’m afraid my tongue and tone weren’t silvered and honeyed enough,” Stacy said. “Pa just plain wouldn’t listen to ME. He CAN be pretty stubborn sometimes.”

“Like someone else we know?” Camille said with a knowing smile.

“I’m afraid so, Madame Darnier,” Stacy readily admitted, then sighed. “Seeing as how I couldn’t convince PA of anything, I did the only thing I COULD do.”

“What was that?”

“I got even with my brother,” Stacy said, relishing the memory. “My vengeance was pretty horrible to behold, too.”

“Not . . . the Lo Mein Affair?”

Stacy looked thoroughly scandalized. “Madame Darnier, first of all I’m perfectly capable of wreaking horrible vengeance on my brother WITHOUT the help of all those people, thank you very much,” she declared, indignant and outraged that anyone could even think such a thing. “And certain pieces of, ummmm circumstantial evidence not withstanding, not a single, solitary soul one who actually witnessed the incident can place me, or any OTHER member of my family . . . any where NEAR the place at the exact moment everything blew up. Furthermore, we CAN produce witnesses . . . LOTS of witnesses . . . who can truthfully verify that my pa, my brothers, Hop Sing, and I were someplace else entirely.”

“One of those things we’ll never know for sure, I suppose,” Camille murmured softly, as she slipped the last pin into the hem of Stacy dress.

“Nope,” Stacy agreed, inwardly hoping and praying that such would remain the case until she and Joe were old and gray, and Pa too old and feeble to march them out to the barn at the very least.

Camille stood away to admire her handiwork. The dress was made from pale blue silk that enhanced Stacy’s deep sky blue eyes. It’s clean tailored lines, full skirt, scooped neckline, and waist gathered with a sash tastefully accentuated her trim, yet blossoming female figure. The tiny, French cut puffed sleeves and the neckline were trimmed with a thin edge of lace and faux pearls.

“Mam’selle Stacy, you look lovely!” Camille exclaimed with delight.

“Y-you really think so?” Stacy was genuinely surprised.

“Oui,” Camille said firmly, then smiled. “Now, Mam’selle Stacy, it’s . . . what’s that expression? Oh yes! It’s show time!” The dressmaker pulled back the curtain, separating the dressing room from the fitting room, where the entire Cartwright Clan and Molly O’Hanlan waited.

Stacy straightened her posture, pulled her shoulders back, chin up, and stomach in before marching resolutely into the fitting room. “Well? What do you think?” she asked, holding her breath.

Hoss broke into a big smile. “Well don’t you beat all,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Joe quipped with a broad grin. “Who’da ever thought YOU’D clean up so pretty?”

“Dadburn it, Baby Brother, that ain’t a very nice thing t’ say to a pretty young la--- I mean a pretty young WOMAN,” Hoss said, glaring at Joe.

“WHAT pretty young woman?” Joe demanded, his eyes sparkling with impish delight. “Hoss, she’s our SISTER, for heaven’s sake.”

“That don’t matter none, Li’l Joe,” Hoss said. “She’s STILL a pretty gal, ‘n YOU got ‘til the count o’ five to apologize.”

“Thank you for taking up for me, Big Brother,” Stacy said. She gave her biggest brother an affectionate bear hug. “But, please . . . PLEASE . . . don’t make him apologize.”

Hoss looked at Stacy askance. “Why not?”

“If he apologizes to me now, I’m gonna feel real guilty when I make fun of him wearing his monkey suit,” Stacy said.

“ . . . with tie,” Hop Sing added.

“Awww NO!” Joe immediately protested, his voice filled with passionate, righteous indignation. “I am not . . . I repeat . . . I am NOT gonna wear a dadblamed tie!”

“If Miss Stacy can look pretty, Little Joe can wear tie!” Hop Sing insisted, with a curt nod of his head for emphasis. “Least he can do.”

“Now just a doggone minute! PA said I didn’t HAVE to wear a tie,” Joe argued.

“That’s funny . . . PA doesn’t remember saying any such thing,” Ben archly observed, with a wry, jaundiced glare aimed in the general direction of his youngest son. “In fact . . . PA doesn’t even remember you asking the question.”

“That’s probably because he asked you in the wee hours of the morning while you were blissfully sawing wood,” Adam said with a smug grin.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t ya?” Joe retorted, with a baleful glare.

“I don’t THINK I’m smart, Little Brother . . . I KNOW I’m smart,” Adam quipped.

“Hop Sing not care what Papa say or what Papa NOT say or if Papa remember what Little Joe say. Hop Sing STILL say Little Joe wear tie,” the number one cook of the Ponderosa declared with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Yeah! What Hop Sing said!” Candy declared. “And Stacy . . . . ”

“Yes, Candy?”

“I hope you’re not going to let a little thing like an apology stop you from making fun of him wearing his monkey suit.”

“Who said anything about letting it stop me?” Stacy quipped with an impish grin. “All I said was that I’d feel guilty.”

“Stacy, as your consultant, I think your dress is perfect,” Teresa declared smiling. “Absolutely perfect!”

“I am in complete agreement with my wife,” Adam said with a smile.

Ben smiled with genuine delight mixed with a healthy dose of deep, profound heartfelt relief. “Stacy, didn’t anyone ever tell you the BRIDE is supposed to the most beautiful woman at her wedding,” he said, teasing, yet in earnest, “not her younger sister’s best friend?”

“Pa, I think you’re ever so slightly prejudiced,” Stacy said, as she impulsively gave him a quick hug, “and I love you all the more for it.”

“Maybe I AM slightly prejudiced,” Ben admitted, hugging her in return, “but I do know a beautiful young woman when I see one.”

“Oui, Monsieur Cartwright,” Camille exclaimed with delight, “your Mam’selle Stacy . . . she IS beautiful, and all by ‘erself. She has no need of all the fancy fol-de-rol and doo-dads most of the other ladies like to wear. All Mam’selle Stacy needs is a simple, yet lovely frame to show her off.”

“Thank you, Madame Darnier,” Stacy said, inwardly chagrinned by the sudden rush of blood to her face.

“Better cut back on the compliments, y’all, before her head ends up swelling to three times its normal size,” Joe teased.

“Your head’s gonna swell TEN times it’s normal size right after I finish mopping up the corral with you,” Stacy threatened.

“Hah!” Joe snorted with mock derision. “You and what army?”

“How about a couple of older Cartwright brothers?” Adam countered, as he and Hoss moved in on their younger brother and glared down at him in unison.

Joe immediately backed away throwing up his hands as if to ward off physical blows. “Uh oh . . . looks like The Kid’s turned so chicken, she’s gonna let our big brothers fight her battles for her,” he taunted.

“I am NOT,” Stacy retorted. “I’m sharing!”

“Sharing WHAT?” Joe demanded.

“Well, speaking for myself, I enjoy pounding you . . . a lot. It would be wrong of me to deny Hoss and Adam the same pleasure . . . after all, Pa DID teach us to share.”

“Ben?” Teresa walked over and stood next to her father-in-law, who stood a little apart from his high-spirited offspring. “You alright?”

“No,” Ben confessed with a pensive smile. “I’m worried.”

“Surely, you’re not worried about the dress,” Teresa said, linking her arm through his.

“No. I’m NOT worried about the dress . . . not anymore,” he replied. “I think, maybe, I’m a little worried about STACY.”

“Oh?” Teresa queried, favoring him with a puzzled frown.

“Joe said it himself . . . who’d have thought she’d clean up so pretty?”

Teresa gave Ben’s arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Ben,” she began in a gentle, yet firm tone, “any young man with romantic ideas in his head about Stacy, is going to have to pass muster with you, Hoss, Joe, AND Hop Sing . . . before he so much as LOOKS at that young woman, Joe never dreamed would clean up so pretty. The young man with the courage, guts, stupidity, and foolhardiness, to face the lot of you is going to be someone who genuinely cares about that daughter of yours . . . a lot.”

“You make your brothers-in-law, Hop Sing, and me sound like a bunch of ogres,” Ben said. Though his tone of voice was stern, the gleam in those dark brown eyes and the bare hint of a smile now tugging hard against the corner of his mouth told Teresa that her father-in-law liked the idea very much. “You, ummm . . . really think the lot of us are really that . . . formidable?”

“Absolutely!” she declared stoutly.

“Thank you, Teresa,” Ben said.

“ . . . and when Dio reaches the same age Stacy is now?”

“Yes?”

Teresa smiled. “I hope you’ll be quick to remind ME that Adam and Benjy are every bit as formidable as you, Hoss, Joe, and Hop Sing.

Ben smiled. “Young Lady . . . you can count on it.”

“Now that my dress has the approval of ALMOST everyone,” Stacy said directing a meaningful look at Joe, “I have two problems.”

“Oh?” Ben queried.

“First . . . can we take the buggy to the wedding, Pa?” Stacy asked. “I’m no good at riding side saddle.”

“THAT can easily be arranged,” Ben promised. “What’s the second problem?”

“Shoes,” she replied. “I think I’ve tried on everything at the shoe store and they’ve all turned out to be torture boots. I couldn’t even walk in most of them without inflicting the worst agony of agonies on my feet.”

“Mam’selle Stacy, I ‘ave just the thing,” Camille said. She reached under the counter and pulled out a box. “They’re also perfect for the waltz, non?” She carefully placed the box in Stacy’s hands.

Stacy removed the lid and lifted out a pair of pale blue silk slippers, bearing close resemblance to ballet shoes, complete with the lacings. They matched the blue silk material of her dress perfectly.

“They’re perfect, Madame Darnier . . . thank you,” she declared smiling.

“Perfect for dancing, too, as you can see,” Camille said with an indulgent smile, “especially for dancing the waltz.”

“I s’pose,” Stacy said softly, “ . . . IF someone can teach me how between now and The Wedding.”

“I would be more than happy to teach you, Little Sister,” Adam offered gallantly.

“Adam, teaching Stacy to dance is MY job,” Ben said firmly. “YOU can teach Dio in a few years.”

“You’d better try them on, Stacy,” Teresa suggested, leading her young sister-in-law to the nearest chair.

Stacy slipped the shoes on and deftly tied the laces. “Perfect fit,” she said, after walking a few steps.

“Oh, Mon Dieu! Look at the time!” Camille Darnier cried out in horror, as her eyes strayed to the wall clock in the fitting room. “Mam’selle Stacy, come, come! We must get you out of your dress, vit! Vit! The Bride is due for HER fitting in fifteen minutes, and I’ve not yet started to fit Mam’selle MOLLY.”

“Adam . . . Hoss, we’d better get a move on,” Ben said. “We have a lot shopping to do yet for tomorrow night.”

Adam gave his wife a chaste kiss on the lips. “See you later, Sweetheart!”

 

The Cartwright men, including Candy and Hop Sing all quickly went their separate ways, leaving Stacy and Teresa behind in the dress shop. The pair retired to the dressing room, where Teresa graciously offered to help Stacy with her dress, freeing Camille to begin working with Molly.

“Merci, merci, a thousand times, merci,” Camille said with sincere, heartfelt appreciation. “M’sieu Adam, he is so lucky to have such a lovely lady as his wife.”

“Thank you, Madame Darnier,” Teresa said with a smile.

Teresa carefully helped Stacy remove the dress, and hung it on its waiting hanger as the latter began to put on her street clothing.

“Stacy . . . and Teresa . . . guess what?” Molly said, her eyes shining. “I meant to tell you this when your pa brought me out to the Ponderosa, but I forgot with all the upset about Apollo and the shock of you actually having a dress made for this wedding.” She paused melodramatically for effect. “The music box came.”

“It did?! Really??” Stacy queried, surprised and delighted. The music box Molly had just mentioned was to be a wedding gift for Colleen and Matt from her and her brother, Frankie. It had taken them the better part of a year to save the money, and they had been anxiously awaiting delivery since the order was been placed somewhere around the beginning of March. “Oh, Molly, that’s great!”

“Wait ‘til you see! My brother Frankie’s picking it up on his way here with Colleen,” Molly babbled on with excitement. “You’ve got to see it! Can you wait for me to finish, and for Frankie and Colleen to come?”

“Sure,” Teresa agreed with a smile. “We’re in no hurry.”

Stacy and Teresa adjourned to the front of the dress shop, where the former paid for her shoes and the remainder owed on the dress. She arranged to have both delivered to the house the following morning.

“How long have you and Molly known each other?” Teresa asked, as she and Stacy took seats in the retail area of the shop.

“Since the first day I started school in Virginia City,” Stacy replied. “Subjects like arithmetic and English grammar are definitely NOT my strong points. Molly gets straight A’s in those and just about everything else. Over the years, she’s tutored me in arithmetic and grammar and I’ve tutored her in things like horseback riding, fishing, tracking, and climbing trees.”

“Oh, Stacy,” it was Molly. She stepped from the fitting room into the front of the shop, wearing a brilliantly hued royal blue satin dress that overwhelmed and bleached all the subtle color right out of Molly’s light strawberry blonde hair and fair complexion. “I look awful. How could Colleen do this to me?”

“Molly, remember what I told you about attitude?”

“A-attitude?”

“Attitude,” Stacy said in a gentle, yet firm tone. “Come on, Molly, straighten up.”

Molly swallowed and drew herself up to her full height of five feet two inches.

“That’s right! Now . . . shoulders back, chin up,” Stacy continued.

As Molly obeyed Stacy’s prompting, a fierce, determined look came into her pale blue eyes.

“I want you to keep telling yourself that YOU . . . Molly O’Hanlan . . . are the most beautiful woman to ever live and draw breath in Virginia Ci—NO! You . . . Molly O’Hanlan . . . are the most beautiful woman to ever grace the whole of the State of Nevada! Just keep telling yourself that.”

“I, Molly O’Hanlan, am the most beautiful woman to ever grace the whole of the State of Nevada . . . ” Molly began to recite the mantra under her breath. “I, Molly O’Hanlan . . . . ”

“Mam’selle Molly, come, come,” Camille Darnier cried frantically, as she burst through the curtain separating the fitting room from the store front.

“I see you’ve taught her something more valuable than arithmetic, English grammar, horseback riding, fishing, tracking, and climbing trees combined,” Teresa said smiling.

“You mean attitude?” Stacy asked.

Teresa nodded.

“One of the barn cats taught me that lesson a long time ago, not long after I first came to the Ponderosa,” Stacy said.

“One of the barn cats?” Teresa asked, intrigued.

“The one we call Mama Cat. She had just given birth to a litter of kittens,” Stacy explained. “One night, Hoss went in to change her bedding and leave her fresh food. Mama Cat didn’t know Hoss was there to help her, because she and most of the barn cats are half wild. I was in one of the other stalls giving Blaze Face a rub down, when I heard this horrible screech. I ran to see what it was, and saw my big brother Hoss practically cornered by a small eight pound cat hissing and spitting for all she was worth to protect her kittens. I learned it’s not so much how big you are or how strong ‘n powerful you are, or even how big a gun you carry. All that really matters is attitude!”

“Hi, Stacy.” It was Frankie O’Hanlan, with his sister, the bride, in tow. Colleen stood demurely, a little behind her brother, looking very uncharacteristically subdued.

“Hi, yourself, Frankie, Colleen,” Stacy greeted the older O’Hanlan offspring with a smile. “I don’t believe you’ve met my sister-in-law, Teresa. She’s Adam’s wife.” She paused. “Teresa, this is Colleen and Frankie O’Hanlan, Molly’s older sister and brother.”

Standing all of five feet, five and a half inches on the rare occasions he chose to stand up straight, Frankie O’Hanlan had startlingly bright red hair, already thinning despite the fact he was only three years older than his sister and Stacy. Today, he wore a pair of light olive green pants, white shirt with bolo tie, and a plaid jacket hued in brilliant shades of red, yellow, black, and lime green. Though unable to quite bring himself to make eye contact with Teresa when introduced, Frankie was able manage a shy smile and politely offer his hand. “G-Glad to meet you, umm, Mrs. Cartwright, Ma’am.”

Teresa rolled her eyes, then grinned. “Frankie, my name’s TERESA,” she said shaking his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, too.” She, then turned to Colleen, a slim, willowy woman with the same bright red hair as her brother and intense green eyes. “I’m also pleased to meet you, Colleen,” she said warmly. “May I offer you best wishes on your impending marriage?”

Colleen gave Teresa a look of complete and utter despair, then burst inexplicably into tears.

“Gotta excuse my sister, Ma’am,” Frankie said quickly. “Pa says it’s a real bad case of wedding day jitters.”

“I thought I heard the door open,” Madame Darnier gushed, as she waltzed into the room, smiling broadly. “The beautiful bride-to-be is right on time. Come, come, Mam’selle Colleen,” she nimbly took the oldest O’Hanlan sister by the shoulders and steered her back toward the fitting room.

“You sure it’s only the jitters, Frankie?” Stacy asked, as she stared at Colleen’s retreating form.

“That’s what PA says,” Frankie reiterated.

“Why do I keep seeing her as some kind of sacrificial lamb being led off to the slaughter?” Stacy mused aloud to no one in particular.

“Oh, Frankie, there you are!” Molly greeted her brother enthusiastically as she emerged from the fitting area, now attired in her street clothes. “Did you get the music box?”

“Music box?” A bewildered frown knotted his brow.

“Yes, the music box,” Molly said. “Our gift to Colleen and Matt! You were supposed to pick it up while I was being fitted for my dress here, remember?”

“Oh yeah . . . . ”

“Well? Did you pick it up?”

“Of course I did,” Frankie said in a highly offended tone of voice.

“Then, where is it?”

“I . . . . ” Frankie looked at one empty hand, then the other. “I . . . . ”

“Oh, Frankie, you lost it!” Molly wailed. “How could you?”

“Frankie,” Teresa immediately took charge of the situation, “where did you go after you picked up the music box?”

“Colleen and I just stopped at the saloon,” Frankie said. “I had a beer, she had three glasses of whiskey . . . drank ‘em straight down, too, like they was water.” He looked thoroughly scandalized.

“WHICH saloon, Frankie?” Stacy pressed. “Virginia City has six.”

“Silver Dollar.”

“Oh, Frankie, are you sure?” Molly demanded.

“Yeah,” Frankie said, “ ‘cause I showed the music box to Clarissa Starling, when Colleen wasn’t lookin’.” A lopsided smile spread the entire length of the lower portion of his face. He sighed contentedly, then turned to Teresa and added, “Clarissa’s one of the girls that works at the Silver Dollar.”

“Problem solved,” Stacy said. “Clarissa knows it’s yours. When she found out you’d gone off and left it, she probably gave it to Sam to hold for you.”

“Let’s go,” Teresa said.

 

“Well, Boys, everything’s set,” Ben declared with a satisfied smile.

The back room was festooned in bright red, white, and blue ribbons. A bar had been hastily assembled using two empty barrels and wood planks, and covered over with a large, white linen tablecloth. Ribbons were stretched out across the front of the bar, and the crates containing new, unopened bottles of whiskey had been carefully stacked underneath. Tables and chairs had been placed along the back wall, and the wall facing the bar. They, too, were covered with white table clothes and decked with ribbons.

“All we need to do NOW is move those crates of whiskey into Sam’s storeroom.” Ben pointed to fifteen crates still stacked next to the door, leading out into the barroom beyond.

“Pa, you sure we got enough whiskey?” Hoss queried doubtfully.

Ben walked over to the bar, and pulled lifted the tablecloth, taking care not to unloose the ribbons they had so carefully attached. The entire space was taken up by crates of whiskey. “And if all this isn’t enough, I’ve arranged for Sam to keep aside extra from HIS stock.”

“What about the can-can dancers, Pa?” Hoss asked, grinning.

“They’ll come in through the rear door and dance ‘til . . . whenever!” Ben said. “We’re also going to have a large cake.”

“How large, Pa?” Adam asked.

“Large enough to hold three very pretty gals,” Ben said with a smile.

“Can-can gals, plus three MORE pretty gals comin’ out of a cake . . . . ” Hoss shook his head, clearly awe-struck. “Chimminey Christmas, Pa! You sure know how to put a party together!”

“Hey, Adam! How much is it worth to you for me NOT to spill the beans to Teresa about the can-can gals and the three coming out of the cake?” It was Joe. His father and older brothers turned and found him lounging in the open door between the back room and the public room out front, grinning from ear to ear.

“Dadburn it, Li’l Joe, what are you doing here?” Hoss demanded with a scowl.

“I came in looking for the lot of YOU, of course,” Joe cheerfully explained. “Sam told me where to find you.”

“I see,” Adam said, as he turned and favored his youngest brother with a smug grin. “Well, for YOUR information, Baby Brother, Teresa already knows about the can-can girls, thanks to YOUR unbridled tongue at the dinner table yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh yeah . . . I kinda forgot about that,” Joe murmured softly. “How about the three nekkid gals who are gonna burst out of the cake? Does she know about THEM?”

“WHAT three nek--- I mean NAKED girls who are going to burst out of the cake?!” Adam demanded, favoring his youngest brother the with a withering glare.

Ben turned and favored his youngest son with the meanest glare he could possibly summon. “Now you hold on just one minute, Young Man!” he growled. “I don’t recall saying a dadblamed thing about those gals being naked . . . any more than I remember telling you that you didn’t hafta wear a tie to the wedding . . . and while we’re on the subject, Joseph Francis Cartwright, there’s also the matter of that conversation you and I had about your sister’s dress.”

“Pa . . . you mean HE’S the one who planted that idea in your head ‘bout Li’l Sister having a dress made up like the ones the gals . . . here . . . wear?!” Hoss queried, with a bemused frown.

“Yep,” Ben replied.

“That wasn’t very nice, Li’l Brother,” Hoss sternly admonished his youngest brother. “Poor Pa’s been worried sick ever since.”

“”I’ve got a good mind to march ya out into the alley behind this saloon and whale the livin’ daylights outta, Son,” Ben declared, “but, on thinking about it, I think justice might be better served if I turned you over to your sister’s tender mercies.”

“Pa! Y-You . . . you wouldn’t!” Joe squeaked, as the blood drained right out of his face.

“Tell ya what, Son,” Ben said, as he sidled up along side his youngest son and placed his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “I won’t say a word to your sister if YOU don’t say anything to Teresa. I . . . trust we understand each other?”

“Yessir!” Joe said very quickly.

“Good boy.” Ben flashed Joe a feral grin and patted his cheek. “Now that we have all that straight, why don’t we g’won out and have a beer? Putting away groceries and decorating is very thirsty work.”

“Good idea, Pa,” Adam agreed. “Come on, Baby Brother, you, too. I’ll buy.”

“Now that’s what I call a good oldest brother,” Joe declared with a broad grin. The instant he stepped out into the public room in the front of the saloon, the grin quickly evaporated. “Well, well, well . . . . ” he murmured softly. “Speak of the she-devils and guess who appears!”

“What was that, Son?” Ben asked.

“Pa . . . I kinda have the feeling that Joe’s trying to tell us our women-folk have decided to join us,” Adam observed, mildly surprised. He pointed to the far end of the bar, where Stacy, Teresa, and the O’Hanlans appeared to be in earnest conversation with Sam, the bar tender.

“Joseph, remember our agreement!” Ben warned, sotto voce, as he and his three sons started across the room to join the female contingent of the family.

“Sheesh!” Joe groaned, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Can’t you guys take a joke?!”

“You just remember what I said, Young Man,” Ben admonished his youngest son with a dark, angry scowl.

“Alright!” Joe snapped.

“I didn’t expect to see you again quite so soon,” Adam greeted his wife with a smile and quick kiss on the lips.

“It seems Frankie left his and Molly’s wedding gift to their sister, Colleen, and Matt here when he stopped by for a beer earlier,” Teresa explained. “He’s here to retrieve it.”

“ . . . and WE’RE here to offer Frankie moral support,” Stacy added with a smile.

“You Cartwrights sure have some funny notions about moral support,” Frankie groused, glaring over at Stacy then at Teresa.

“What do you mean, Frankie?” Ben asked.

“Frankie was a little reluctant about coming back to get the wedding gift he left here earlier, Mister Cartwright,” Molly explained. “So Stacy and Teresa had to twist his arm a little.”

“Literally!” Frankie groaned, as he made a point of massaging his right forearm.

Stacy and Teresa exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. “Frankie left the gift here,” the latter explained in a reasonable tone of voice. “It’s only fair that Frankie come back and get it.”

“I agree completely,” Adam said.

“Thanks a lot,” Frankie grumbled.

“I’ll have you know that I speak as a man who’s had his own arm twisted enough times . . . LITERALLY,” Adam quipped, with a glance over in the general direction of his wife.

Teresa responded with a smug, secretive, Mona Lisa smile.

“Howdy, Folks,” Sam affably greeted the new comers. “Can I get you anything?”

“Why not?” Adam murmured softly, then turned to the bartender. “Sam, you go ahead and bring ‘em whatever they want. I’m buying.”

“Whiskey!” Frankie snapped. “In a big glass. A VERY big glass!”

“Francis Sean O’Hanlan, Junior!” Molly exclaimed, dismayed and righteously indignant. “Isn’t it a little early in the day for that?!”

“It’s for medicinal purposes,” Frankie growled.

“WHAT medicinal purposes?” Molly demanded, regarding her brother with a very jaundiced eye.

“Nerve disorder,” Frankie replied without missing a beat, eliciting a big grin from Joe and soft chuckles from Adam and Teresa, “and I’ll thank YOU not to sound so durn much like MA!”

Molly’s cheeks flamed bright scarlet. She glared murderously over at her brother, and though her mouth moved up and down, no words, not even the slightest sound issued forth.

She looked so much like Mrs. O’Hanlan at HER very worst, Stacy had to turn away and quickly stuff her balled fist into her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“Will you be having your usual, Stacy?” Sam asked, trying very hard not to smile himself. “Or would you prefer sarsaparilla?”

“Usual!” Stacy squeaked.

“Ok, that’s one whiskey in a very big glass and one root beer,” Sam said. “Mrs. Cartwright . . . Miss O’Hanlan . . . what’ll YOU have?”

“I’ll have a beer,” Teresa replied.

“Nothing for me, thank you!” Molly said stiffly, having once again found her voice.

“ . . . uhhh, Frankie?”

“Yes, Mrs. Cartwright, Ma’am?”

Teresa sighed, rolled her eyes, and slowly shook her head.

“I think it’s the school teacher’s tone of voice,” Adam suggested with an amused smile. “Teresa was a teacher before we were married . . . and from what I saw, a very good one.”

“Thank you, My Love,” she responded with a quick smile and a gentle, affectionate squeeze of his hand, before again turning her attention to Frankie. “As for YOU, Young Man . . . don’t you have something to ask Sam?”

“I already asked him for whiskey,” Frankie replied, with a bewildered frown.

“The music box!” Molly wailed. “You were going to ask Sam about the music box . . . remember?!”

“Music box?” Frankie queried, looking bewildered.

“Yes, the music box!” Stacy said glaring at the hapless young man. “Yours and Molly’s wedding gift for Colleen and Matt!”

“Oh yeah,” Frankie suddenly remembered. “Sam . . . . ”

“Yeah, Frankie?”

“When Colleen . . . . ” His face flushed a deep crimson upon remembering how much whiskey his older sister had consumed in so short a time. He swallowed nervously, then forced himself to continue. “When Colleen and I stopped by earlier, I had a package with me that I think I . . . well, I kinda maybe have left here? Did you uhhh, happen to by some kinda odd chance . . . find it?”

“Sorry, Frankie,” Sam replied, shaking his head. “I ain’t seen it. You might ask Clarissa, though . . . she was waiting tables.”

“Ask C-Clarissa?” Frankie gulped.

“It’s ok, Frankie. She won’t bite ya,” Sam offered in a kindly tone, knowing full well that the nervous, tongue-tied young man had a king sized crush on the girl, every bit as big as the whole State of Texas.

“Where’s Clarissa now?” Stacy asked.

“Over there,” Sam pointed to the slim, willowy red haired woman standing next to one of the tables in the back chatting with three men.

“OK, Frankie, go ahead,” Stacy said.

“G-go ahead and . . . what?”

“Go ahead and ask Clarissa about the music box,” Teresa prompted.

Frankie peered over at Clarissa, through fear-filled eyes, round as saucers. “Do I hafta?” he whimpered, wringing his hands.

“Yes, you have to,” Stacy said with growing impatience.

“Geeze Loo-Wheeze! What’ll I s-say to her?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Frankie!” Stacy exclaimed, her impatience getting the better of her. “Just ask her about the music box.”

“What if she gets insulted?” Frankie groaned softly. “She’ll hate me forever.”

“Why should she get insulted?” Stacy asked with a puzzled frown. “You’re NOT going to accuse her of stealing it.”

“I am surprised!” Joe declared in tones of mock outrage. “No, I am APPALLED! While I expect my sister to be a hard case . . . . ”

“I learn by example, Grandpa,” Stacy loftily retorted.

“Oh yeah?” Adam queried. “You mind my asking who?”

“You mean who serves as my example?”

Adam nodded.

“In THIS instance . . . HE does,” Stacy replied, patting Joe in the left forearm.

Joe glared at his sister for a moment, then continued. “But, Teresa . . . YOU surprise me!”

“Oh?” Teresa queried, as she demurely sipped her beer.

“I never . . . not in a million years . . . EVER expected it of YOU.” Joe exhaled a very long, very melodramatic sigh, and shook his head. “All this time, I thought you were so kind, gracious . . . . ”

“Looks like he’s finally seen the true you, My Dear,” Adam teased, his warm, golden brown eyes dancing with impish delight.

Teresa promptly turned to her husband and thumbed up her nose.

Adam smiled and stuck out his tongue.

“Settle down, Children,” Ben admonished his eldest son and daughter-in-law in a tone of voice a bit too solemn. “Think of the atrocious example you’re setting for your younger bothers and sister.”

“Yes, Pa,” Adam groaned, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“This conversation’s NOT over, My Love,” Teresa whispered, the minute Ben turned his attention elsewhere, “not by a long shot.”

“No! It certainly isn’t!” Adam readily agreed, lowing his own voice to a whisper.

“After supper,” Teresa said. “Upstairs, in our room. That way we’ll have a modicum of privacy.”

“I can’t wait!”

“Frankie, there’s no trick at all to talking with girls,” Joe, meanwhile, worked valiantly to bolster the young man’s sagging, demoralized spirits. “It’s as easy . . . and as natural as falling right off a log.”

“She’s gonna hate me,” Frankie moaned. “I’m gonna say the wrong things . . . maybe DO the wrong thing . . . oh, who knows? I might’ve even put on the wrong cologne after I shaved this morning . . . but she’s gonna end up despising me, I just know it.”

“Tell ya what, Frankie . . . for the price of a couple o’ beers, I’ll be more ‘n happy to SHOW you just how easy it is,” Joe offered, with a confident smile.

“Y-You mean . . . YOU’LL ask her?” The profound relief on Frankie’s face was almost comical to behold. Stacy turned away and covered her mouth with both hands to keep from laughing out loud. “Thank you, Joe, thank you, thank you, thank you. If you were a gal, I’d kiss ya!”

“The cost of a couple o’ beers’ll more than suffice, Frankie!” Joe said stiffly, while silently giving thanks for small mercies.

“Joseph . . . . ” Ben warned, his voice low and menacing. “I don’t know what you’re up to--- ”

“Nothing, Pa!” Joe squeaked, noting with fear and trepidation that his too-quick response had caused the scowl already on his father’s face to deepen. “Pa, honest! All I’m gonna do is by Clarissa a drink and talk to her!”

“That’s ALL?!” Ben queried dubiously.

“That’s ALL!”

Under the watchful eyes of family and friends, Joe approached Clarissa, smiled, and tipped his hat. She smiled back, and nodded. After a few words to the three men seated at the table, and she focused her complete, undivided attention on the youngest Cartwright son. Joe, still smiling that devastating smile, capable of melting butter in the cold of winter, gallantly offered Clarissa his arm. She demurely slipped her arm through his, and led him over to a table in a more secluded corner.

“Gosh-a-roonies, I sure wish I could talk to women like Joe,” Frankie sighed enviously.

“No, you don’t, Frankie,” Hoss said with a complacent smile. “Trust me on this one.”

“You seem to have no trouble talking to Molly, Stacy, and Teresa,” Ben hastened to point out.

“They’re not really women, Mister Cartwright,” Frankie said.

“Frankie, I can assure you that my wife Teresa IS really a woman,” Adam said. The gleam in his eyes added, “ALL woman.”

Frankie blushed, the color of his sudden healthy looking complexion clashing against his brilliant red hair. “G-gosh, Teresa, I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I-I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that, well . . . y-you’re married to Adam and . . . Stacy and Molly . . . well, THEY’RE just a couple of kids.”

“No apology necessary, Frankie,” Teresa said gently, with a kind reassuring smile.

“Speak for yourself, Teresa,” Stacy growled, as she and Molly glared daggers at the latter’s hapless older brother.

“Frankie, take it from me, when the gal is the RIGHT gal, you ain’t gonna have one lick of problem talkin’ with her,” Hoss said.

“Hoss is absolutely right,” Ben agreed.

“HEY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE--- ” The sound of Joe’s outraged voice drew the attention of his family and the O’Hanlans back to the secluded corner occupied by himself and Clarissa.

“NO! NO! NO! NO!” Clarissa Starling yelled at the top of her voice. She seized the nearest mug of beer and emptied it in Joe’s face.

“See, Frankie?” Hoss said with a smug grin. “I told ya.”

“Well, Adam, seein’ as how you’re buyin’, that’ll be four dollars,” Sam said.

Adam reached in his back pocket for his wallet. The pocket was empty. “Hey!” he growled. “My wallet’s gone!”

“Aww, come on, Adam,” Hoss teased. “That’s the oldest trick in the book!”

“Look!” Stacy cried. “Heading for the door!” She pointed out a stooped person, dressed in a nondescript gray overcoat, making his way toward the swinging saloon doors.

“Excuse me,” Adam growled. “I have some property to recover.” He took off after the individual his sister had pointed out at a dead run. Stacy set her half empty root beer mug on the bar and followed.

 

The individual in the gray overcoat, upon catching sight of Adam and Stacy bearing down on him, immediately straightened and bolted straight for the door. Two of the patrons had to scramble to avoid collision. The minute he hit the street he feinted right, then cut a sharp left.

“This way, Older Brother,” Stacy reached out and barely stopped Adam from turning to the right. The pair chased their quarry down the sidewalk. Up ahead, two men suddenly stepped from one of the offices carrying a heavy sofa between them. The thief nimbly leapt, easily clearing the sofa. Stacy dived under it, and forward rolled back to her feet.

“Excuse me, Sir, may I have this dance?” Adam quipped, with a wry smile, while neatly sidestepping around the leading man carrying the sofa. Once safely on the other side, he resumed the chase, leaving the man with sofa staring after him with a bewildered frown on his face.

Adam gritted his teeth and poured on speed passing his sister and gaining on the fleeing thief by leaps and bounds. The instant he came within arm’s reach of his quarry, Adam leapt with an ease and strength that surprised both himself and his sister, following behind. His arms circled the fleeting thief’s waist in an iron, vise like grip, worthy of his biggest brother, Hoss. The thief howled in pain and outrage as he and Adam crashed hard onto the sidewalk, the latter breaking his fall on top of the former.

Adam immediately scrambled to his feet, and seized the thief by the coat lapels. “You have something that belongs to me,” he said grimly.

The thief lashed out punching Adam in the nose, and drawing blood. Adam’s hands immediately went to his bleeding nose, automatically releasing his quarry. The pickpocket thudded onto the board sidewalk, howling in agony and protest. He rose, and with a very pronounced limp continued his flight down the sidewalk, moaning with each step.

“Adam!?”

“Nebber bind be, Stacy, get HIB!” Adam ordered, wincing in agony at each word.

Stacy nodded and doubled her speed. Rising anger gave her second wind. In her mind, the only people allowed to pound Adam were his wife, and his brothers. No one else, especially some low-life sneak-thieving pickpocket. Up ahead was the end of the walk. A wooden barricade stretched across the open area, as a protective measure to keep the unwary patron from taking an injurious tumble into the street three feet below. The thief started to climb the barricade.

“Oh no you don’t!” Stacy reached out blindly, seizing his coat firmly in both hands. The thief wriggled and flopped like a fish out of water, freeing himself from the confines of the coat. He leapt the barrier and continued down the street, clad now only in his cowboy boots. His lack of attire drew outraged screams from some of Virginia City’s matrons.

“Did you get hibb?” Adam appeared at her elbow, with a borrowed red and white handkerchief held firmly in place up against his nose.

“I THOUGHT I had him, but he slipped right through my fingers,” Stacy said ruefully, pointing in the direction in with the man fled.

Adam glanced up just in time to see the thief pause at one of the hitching posts outside the general store, just long enough to untie one of the horses. “Oh no!” The blood drained right out of his face, leaving it a sickly ashen gray. “Surely he’s not going to . . . . ”

“ . . . steal that horse? I’m afraid he IS,” Stacy said softly, the angry scowl on her face deepening.

Adam watched in horrified fascination, as the thief awkwardly mounted his chosen steed. The thief pulled on the reins, urging his horse to move. The horse settled into a brisk, bouncing trot, revealing with a horrifying clarity, the rider’s woeful lack of experience.

“Geeze-loo-wheeze!” Stacy exclaimed, as she watched the rider bump up and down on the saddle, in rhythm to the horse’s movements. “I’ll betcha anything a sharpshooter could shoot that horse right out from under him and not come anywhere near touching him when he comes up like that.”

“Thank you, Little Sister . . . thank you so buch for that agondizing ibage,” Adam groaned, as the blood drained right out of his face.

“Agonizing image is right,” Stacy murmured softly. “That guy’s gonna be one saddle sore cowboy . . . that’s for sure!”

“You have no-ooo-oo idea!” Adam quickly turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’ think I can watch this . . . . ”

“A-Adam?” Stacy queried anxiously, fearing he was going to faint right there on the spot. “I, uhhh . . . think, maybe we should have Doctor Martin look at your nose.”

“It’s not by nose, Little Sister,” Adam said stiffly. “It’s just a very, very strogg ebbpathetic reaction.”

“A strong empathetic reaction to, uhhh . . . what, exactly?” Stacy queried, her eyes round with horror, as she began fearing the absolute worst.

Adam managed a wan smile for her benefit. “I’ll answer your question when you’re older. MUCH older.”

Stacy sighed, and rolled her eyes. “How MUCH older?” she demanded, highly indignant.

“Try asking me again . . . ohhh, why don’t we make it sometime after your thirtieth birthday,” Adam replied.

“Don’t think I WON’T ask,” Stacy growled.

“We’ll see,” Adam responded in a bland tone of voice. “Is my wallet in amongst that pickpocket’s ill-gotten gain?”

“Right here!” Stacy drew her brother’s wallet out of the inside pocket and held it out to him.

“Thank you.” Adam accepted the proffered wallet from Stacy and stuffed it into slipped it into his right side pocket of his pants. He, then, began to gingerly rummage through the deep pockets of the overcoat. “Good heavens! Wallets . . . cash . . . a couple of watches . . . jewelry . . . looks like he’s made quite a haul today,” Adam wryly observed.

“He certainly has,” Stacy agreed. “Now what’ll we do?”

“Two things,” Adam immediately replied. “First of all, we go back to the Silver Dollar, so I can pay my tab. After that, we turn that coat over to Sheriff Coffee.”

 

At the Silver Dollar Saloon, meanwhile, Joe stiffly returned to the bar, with a murderous scowl on his face, dripping wet with beer and foam.

“Joe?”

“Pa, I DON’T want to talk about it,” Joe said in terse, clipped tones. “Sam?”

“Yes, Joe?” Sam queried.

“Bar towel.”

Sam handed Joe a bar towel, laboring valiantly to keep a straight face.

“Joe?”

Joe turned and found himself looking into the face of Lotus O’Toole. She was one of the girls who worked at the Silver Dollar, and an old friend since the day both started first grade at the Virginia City School.

“Hi, Lotus,” Joe said contritely.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m afraid you haven’t exactly caught me at my best.”

“I hope you can find it in yourself to excuse Clarissa,” Lotus said gently. “She’s taking this so called Wedding of the Century very hard this time around.”

“Aww, dang it! That’s right! She and Matt Wilson . . . . ” Joe shook his head ruefully. “I’d completely forgotten.”

“No harm done, Little Joe,” Lotus said, linking her arm through his. “You can apologize to her later, after BOTH of you have had a chance to cool off. In the meantime, can I buy you a drink?”

“How ‘bout I buy YOU one, Lotus?” Joe counter offered.

“Sure,” she smiled.

Joe turned to his family and excused himself. “Lotus, I was wondering . . . . ”

Adam and Stacy returned, the former still pressing the handkerchief firmly to his nose. His hair was mussed, shirt half out, and there was a gaping hole in his pants, exposing a skinned and bleeding right knee. Stacy had the overcoat slung over her arm. Her hair and clothing were in a state similar to those of her oldest brother.

“Adam!” Teresa cried in dismay, seeing the cuts, scrapes, and bloody nose. “Are you alright?”

Adam nodded. “Just superficial flesh wounds,” he said.

“Let me see that nose, Son,” Ben said, as he and Teresa peered anxiously into Adam’s face.

Adam carefully removed the handkerchief. Thankfully, the worst of the bleeding had stopped.

“Doesn’t APPEAR to be broken . . . . ” Teresa murmured thoughtfully.

“I agree, but maybe we should stop by the doctor’s office and have Paul take a look at you,” Ben said.

“Can’t hurt, Adam,” Teresa pressed gently.

“Alright,” Adam reluctantly acquiesced, ““but, first, we need to stop by the sheriff’s office.”

“Oh?” Ben queried. “What for?”

“We didn’t catch the thief, Pa,” Stacy explained, “but we DID get his coat . . . and it’s chock full of stolen goods.”

“Stacy can also provide Roy with a complete description,” Adam added.

“Really?! That’s wonderful!” Ben exclaimed not without a fair amount of fatherly pride.

“Pa, I can only describe him from the back,” Stacy said guardedly.

“That’s more than what Roy’s been able to get from the thief’s victims so far,” Ben said. “Come on, we’d better get moving.” He looked over at his youngest son, standing at the end of the bar a few yards away. He and Lotus were still huddled together in animated conversation.

“Pa, I’ll wait for Joe,” Hoss said. “If we don’t find ya at the sheriff’s office, we’ll look for ya at Doc Martin’s.”

“Alright,” Ben agreed.

 

Stacy felt a great measure of relief in finally turning over the gray overcoat and its purloined contents to Sheriff Roy Coffee. She and Adam then told the sheriff about Adam’s wallet suddenly going missing, the subsequent chase, and capture of the coat.

“Did you get a look at him, Stacy?” Roy asked, as he fished out the contents in the coat’s many pockets and stacked it on his desk.

“I sure did,” she replied, with a naughty grin that made Adam blanch.

“Sit down.” Roy gestured for Stacy to take a seat in one of the chairs placed in front of his desk.

Stacy nodded, then sat down. Adam took the other chair at the insistence of his concerned wife and father.

Roy opened the desk drawer, positioned above his lap and removed a well-sharpened pencil. “Alright, Stacy . . . what’d the thief look like?”

“He was tall and kinda on the skinny side . . . . ”

“You’re sure it was a he?” Roy asked.

“Absolutely,” Stacy declared with an emphatic nod of her head. “Couldn’t possibly be anything ELSE.”

Adam sarcastically rolled his eyes heavenward, drawing a sharp, puzzled glares from his father and his wife.

“G’won,” Roy urged.

“Tall . . . kinda on the skinny side . . . with light brown curly hair, long . . . about to here.” Stacy indicated a place against her own neck, roughly situated an inch above the spot where neck and shoulders joined together. “He also had a heart shaped tattoo on his left cheek . . . red heart with the words, ‘Bubba ‘n Ella forever’ that last word spelled with a number four.”

“Didja say that tattoo was on his CHEEK?” Roy queried with a puzzled frown.

“His cheek?!” Ben echoed. “Stacy, I thought you told me over at the Silver Dollar that you could only describe him from the back.”

“That’s right, Pa.”

“Mighty odd thing, for a man to have a tattoo like that on his fa---!” All of a sudden, the sheriff’s face went white. “Wait a minute! You mean t’ tell me the thief was wearin’ that tattoo--- ”

“Roy, the only thing the thief was wearing, after Stacy grabbed his coat was . . . a pair of boots,” Adam explained.

“WHAT?!” Ben roared.

“Great Jumpin’ Jehosaphat!” Roy groaned.

Teresa turned her back on the assembly and stuffed her balled fist in her mouth, trying desperately to stifle the sudden onset of boisterous laughter.

“He made his get away on a stolen horse,” Stacy continued.

“Didja see which way he went?” Roy asked, grateful for the change of subject.

“No,” Stacy sighed. “I . . . I was really worried about Adam.”

“Why were you worried about Adam?” Ben asked.

“He was looking awfully sick, Pa,” Stacy replied.

“Pa, it’s alright!” Adam very quickly interjected upon seeing the apprehension creeping into his father’s eyes. “I just suffered a very bad case of empathetic reaction. It’s over now . . . over and done.”

“A bad case of empathetic reaction?!” Roy queried with fast sinking heart. “Does that me YOU didn’t see which way the thief went either?”

“Sorry, Roy,” Adam shook his head, wincing again at the memory, “but I just plain and simply couldn’t bear to watch.” He paused briefly. “I’m afraid the thief wasn’t a very experienced rider.”

“How do ya figure, Adam?” Roy asked.

“I could tell by the way he kept bouncing up and down in the saddle.”

“G-Great balls o’ f-fire!” Roy Coffee moaned suddenly looked very ill himself. He took a moment to compose himself, then rose none too steadily on his feet. “Well, I’d better get this overcoat ‘n the stuff in its pockets under lock and key,” he sighed. “Adam . . . .”

“Yes, Roy?”

“That includes your wallet, too.” Roy turned and held out his hand expectantly.

“You’re joking!”

“Nope. I’m afraid it’s evidence, too, Son . . . just like all the other stuff in the pockets.”

“Can I keep the money?” Adam asked. “Please?”

Roy shook his head. “Sorry, Adam, but the money’s evidence, too,” he said. “Now don’t you worry none about it. It’ll be locked up safe ‘n sound right here in my wall safe.”

Adam dug his wallet out of his back pocket and surrendered it reluctantly to the sheriff’s outstretched hand.

Roy removed the purloined valuables from the pockets of the overcoat and placed them inside the safe, set behind his desk, up against the wall. The overcoat was carefully folded and placed in the bottom drawer on the left side of his desk. That done, he reached for his hat and gun belt. “I’d better mosey on down t’ where the thief made his escape,” the sheriff said, as he placed the gun belt around his waist. “Someone there might’ve seen him.”

“There’s no possible way anyone could have MISSED seeing him,” Adam said in a wry tone.

“Missed seeing what?” It was Joe, with his bother, Hoss, and the O’Hanlans in tow.

“I’m only gonna say it was a real sorry sight, Joseph . . . and let it go at that,” Ben said firmly.

“Sorry sight is right, Pa,” Stacy said. “I’ve seen meatier back sides on our beef cattle.”

With that, Teresa burst out laughing uproariously, unable to contain herself.

“That’s it! OUT!!!” Ben roared, ushering his own family and the O’Hanlans unceremoniously out onto the street.

 

After leaving the sheriff’s office, Hoss drove Adam and Teresa to Doctor Martin’s office in the buggy, leaving Ben, Joe, and Stacy to console the downcast O’Hanlans.

“I-I guess that music box is gone forever,” Molly sighed. Her blue eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” Stacy said, placing a sympathetic hand on her friend’s shoulder. She more than anyone else in her family knew how hard Molly and Frankie had both worked and scrimped to get that money together.

“It’s all my fault,” Frankie said dejectedly. “I’m sorry I was so careless, Molly. I’ll save up the money and get us a new one, I promise.”

“It . . . it took BOTH of us almost a whole y-year to save up f-for that music box,” Molly said dejectedly. “We’ll never get it t-together by . . . by the Wedding . . . d-day after t-tomorrow . . . . ”

“You can give it to your sister and her husband belatedly, after Frankie gets the money together,” Ben said gently.

Molly nodded, unable to speak. One minute, she was absolutely furious, wanting more than anything to throttle the living horse hockey out of her brother, the next, she felt overwhelmed with despair.

Joe, meanwhile, walked over the equally disconsolate Frankie, and placed a comforting hand the younger man’s shoulders. “Frankie, I’ve done the same thing myself a time or two,” he said kindly. “Everyone has.”

“Maybe so,” Frankie said dejectedly, “but, I seem do it all the time.”

“Molly, is there ANYTHING I can do?” Stacy asked, feeling on the edge of tears herself.

Molly dolefully shook her head.

“Molly, if it’s a matter of money, I can loan you whatever you need to purchase a new music box,” Ben offered. “Frankie can pay me back over time.”

“Th-thank you for your offer, M-Mister Cartwright,” Molly sobbed. Stacy immediately placed a comforting arm around her distraught friend’s shoulders. “But, the g-g-general store would have to order another a-anyway . . . . ”

“The one I lost took almost four months to get here,” Frankie added despondently, “and that was with fairly good weather between here and New York City.”

“Four months?” Ben echoed, looking over at Frankie. “I thought Colleen and Matt had only . . . well, had only been engaged for ONE month.”

“Molly and I figured sooner or later ONE of those engagements was gonna finally stick,” Frankie said, “we had no idea when or where, of course . . . . ”

“We planned to hold it in escrow until Colleen and Matt had an engagement that actually went all the way to a wedding,” Molly said in a small voice. “I know . . . it’s sure taken long enough, hasn’t it?”

“The path of true love never runs smooth,” Ben said kindly. “It’s an old saying, Molly, with a lot of truth in it. It especially applies to putting the wedding together.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright, that was very diplomatic of you,” Molly said, smiling in spite of her misery.

“I think you and I’d better get on home,” Frankie sighed.

“If I don’t see you before, I . . . I guess I’ll see you at the w-wedding,” Molly said.

“Molly, and you, too, Frankie . . . . if things get too tense at home, with the wedding preparations ‘n all . . . you’re more than welcome to come out to the Ponderosa for sanctuary,” Stacy said.

“Absolutely,” Ben said immediately, knowing full well that Myrna O’Hanlan tended to be high strung and vaporous even at the best of times. The stress of all the final preparations as the hours and minutes ticked down to the day of her eldest daughter’s Wedding of the Century would be a far cry from the best of times.

“Thank you, Stacy . . . you, too, Mister Cartwright,” Molly said gratefully. “Frankie and I may just take you up on that.”

“Can we come NOW?” Frankie asked hopefully, “and stay until the wedding’s OVER?”

“Frankie, they have company,” Molly said, “and besides, Pa AND Colleen would skin the two of us ALIVE if we left them alone to face Ma.”

“Your pa and older sister are welcome, too,” Ben said with a smile.

“Thanks, Mister Cartwright,” Molly said. “I . . . guess Frankie and I better get home before Ma badgers Sheriff Coffee into getting a posse together to look for us. We’ll see you later.”

“Pa, I wish there was SOMETHING we could do,” Stacy said dejectedly, after the O’Hanlans had left. “Molly and Frankie worked so hard getting that money together . . . . ”

“I wish there was something we could do, too,” Ben said sympathetically. He placed a comforting arm around Stacy’s shoulders as they turned and walked toward the buckboard. “I’m sure things will work themselves out . . . somehow.”

“You know that music box has to be in this town SOMEWHERE,” Joe remarked casually, drawing a sharp glances from his father and sister.

“Joseph . . . . ” Ben shot his youngest son a warning glare.

“Hey! All I said was . . . that music box has to be in this town somewhere,” Joe said, all innocence.

“And?” Ben prompted.

“What and?” Joe demanded, shrugging his shoulders. “Geeze loo-weeze, Pa, can’t a guy remark on the obvious without falling under heavy suspicion?”

“You SURE that’s all you were doing?” Ben demanded.

Joe stared back at his father, the too perfect picture of wide-eyed innocence.

Ben had his doubts, but decided to let the matter drop for the time being. “All right, let’s go home,” he sighed, “and Joseph, YOU are going to get right into the tub. You’re beginning to smell like a brewery.”

 

“Well, Adam, the good news is your nose is NOT broken,” Doctor Paul Martin reported after a thorough and exhaustive exam.

“ . . . and the BAD news?” Adam ventured, mentally bracing himself.

“It’s going to remain twice its normal size for the next day or so, I’m afraid,” the doctor replied.

“ONLY twice its normal size?” Adam queried sardonically, with eyebrow slightly upraised. “After all that poking and prodding, I’m frankly surprised it’s not three or four times its normal size.”

“Very funny, Adam,” Paul chuckled. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re as bad as your YOUNGEST brother?”

Adam favored the sawbones with a withering, jaundiced glare while his wife and younger, bigger brother chortled and guffawed behind him. “Doctor, if you make it a regular practice to insult your patients, then your bedside manner leaves a heckuva lot to be desired,” he retorted.

Teresa exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she murmured softly.

Adam turned and favored his wife with a look that questioned her very sanity. “Thank goodness?!” he echoed, perplexed and bewildered. “For what?”

“Seeing you engage the doctor in a bit of verbal jousting just now tells me that you didn’t suffer any kind of serious brain damage,” she replied.

“It’s that Cartwright hard head,” Paul retorted with a smile. “They’ve ALL got it! Ben, of course, is the absolute WORST . . . but I digress. Adam, the swelling in your nose WILL go down significantly in about a day or two . . . three at the very outside, as I just said. However, the bruising won’t fade at least a good two, two and a half weeks . . . . ”

Adam looked up at the doctor, his eyes round with horror. “Bruising?! Oh no!” he groaned. “Doctor Martin . . . please . . . tell me you’re joking?! Pretty please?”

“Sorry, Adam . . . I wish I WAS joking, but I’m not. YOU are going to be sporting a pair of real shiners, come tomorrow morning, if not sooner,” the doctor said, trying his best not to smile. “In fact, I can see the first swatches of color now.”

“Great! There I’ll be, the best man at The Wedding of the Century sporting a pair of big, bright, black and blue shiners!” Adam groaned.

“An ice pack will help some with the swelling, and I have medication for the pain,” Paul said, not with out some feeling of sympathy. “The rest . . . . ” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m afraid nature’s going to have to take her course . . . in her own good time.”

“A judicious application of cosmetics should cover up most of the problem,” Teresa said. “Won’t stand under very close scrutiny, of course, but from a distance, no one’ll know the difference.”

The doctor counted out three yellow pills and placed them into a glass container. “Take one tonight, at bed time,” he ordered. “If needed you can take one tomorrow after breakfast and the other again at bed time tomorrow night. Apply ice packs as needed for the swelling, and you might want to see what Hop Sing might have in the way of . . . . ”

“ . . . ONLY if it’s absolutely necessary!” Adam said very quickly.

 

Hoss, meanwhile, sat in the doctor’s parlor, waiting for his older brother and sister-in-law. As he sat, lightly napping, he had vague awareness of the front door in the vestibule beyond opening and closing.

“Yes, he’s here,” Lily Martin said politely. A few moments later, she hesitantly tapped him on the shoulder.

“Oh . . . sorry, Mrs. Martin,” Hoss said, feeling slightly groggy. “I must’ve dozed off . . . . ”

“Hoss, Apollo Nikolas is waiting out in the vestibule,” Lilly said quietly. “He wants to see YOU.”

A puzzled frown knotted Hoss’ brow. “Any idea what it’s about?”

Lily shook her head.

“Thanks, Mrs. Martin,” Hoss rose and stretched. “I’ll go see what he wants.”

“I’ll let you know when the doctor is finished with your brother and sister-in-law,” she promised.

Hoss found Apollo Nikolas waiting next to the front door, with sailor’s hat in both hands, looking for all the world like a frightened schoolboy, hopelessly lost.

“Hoss, please,” Apollo begged. “You have to help me.”

“Apollo, what’s this all about?” Hoss asked.

“Hoss, you’re the only person I can turn to!” The words poured out of him like a rushing torrent. “You’ve to GOT to help us! I’ve tried and tried and tried to think of something, but . . . . ” Apollo shrugged helplessly, and shook his head.

“Apollo, you ain’t makin’ a lick o’ sense,” Hoss said, a puzzled frown knotting his brow. “What do you mean I gotta help ya? Help ya with what?”

“I LOVE her, Hoss!” Apollo said earnestly. “She loves me! She can’t go through with this.”

“She WHO?”

“Colleen!”

“Colleen?!”

“She doesn’t love Matt, she loves ME,” Apollo said. “I love HER. We have to stop this wedding somehow.”

“Now just a dadburn minute, Apollo,” Hoss said sternly. “If you think you c’n just show up outta the clear blue one day after bein’ away f’r nigh on ten years an’ expect t’ pick up right where y’ left off . . . . ”

“Colleen DOES love me, Hoss! She does,” Apollo passionately maintained his position, “and I love her. I . . . I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles if y’ want me to . . . . ”

“Did Colleen tell you she loves you?” Hoss asked.

“Yes! With her own beautiful, honey sweet, wonderful lips, I long to kiss just thinking . . . . ”

“A simple yes would’ve done,” Hoss said stiffly, as two bright splotches of color appeared on his cheeks.

“Sorry,” Apollo murmured contritely, his own face reddening.

“Look, Apollo . . . I know you ‘n Colleen were close ‘n all ‘fore you put out to sea, but it’s been nearly TEN YEARS,” Hoss pointed out, feeling suddenly like a drowning man helplessly caught in the swift currents of a flash flood.

“Hoss, would you please . . . just listen to me?” Apollo begged.

Hoss sighed. “Alright, Apollo, on one condition,” he said firmly. “You slow down ‘n tell me from the beginning.”

Apollo nodded and took a deep breath. He told Hoss of meeting Colleen at her special place, and of all that had transpired. “Now, with everything arranged, bought and paid for . . . she feels obligated to go through with it, unless I can come up with . . . something,” he finished mournfully.

Hoss was forced to admit, albeit very reluctantly, that everything Apollo had just told him made perfect sense.

“Please, Hoss, you’ve got to help me,” Apollo begged. “Help US . . . Colleen and me! Maybe between you ‘n me, we can figure out something.”

Memories of George rose to the forefront of Hoss’ thoughts. George was an abandoned pup he had found alone and shivering in the rain back when he was six, maybe seven years old. The big brown eyes, round with fear, and the loneliness in the pup’s near frantic whimpering wrenched his heart then, as the look of pure misery on Apollo’s face did now. Furthermore, the romantic within him somehow couldn’t bear the thought of poor Colleen entering into a loveless marriage to satisfy the dictates of propriety, pocketbook, and her domineering mother.

Hoss took a moment to bid a fond adieu to the two hundred dollars he had hoped to win from the twenty-dollar bet he had placed on the wedding between Matt and Colleen happening as scheduled. “OK, Apollo,” he said, “how ‘bout I meet you at the Silver Dollar tonight at around nine. Between now ‘n then, we can give the matter some thought ‘n see what we come up with.”

“Thank you, Hoss,” Apollo said gratefully. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Colleen and I’ll name our first born after you.”

“Better make sure it’s a BOY first, Apollo,” Hoss said with an amused grin. “Eric Hoss’d be a mighty peculiar name for a li’l gal.”

 

Roy Coffee stepped up to the bar at the Silver Dollar all but consumed with frustration, anger, and despair. Earlier that afternoon, he thought sure he had at long last, FINALLY, gotten a break in the ongoing investigation of the man dubbed by the Territorial Enterprise as the Robber Baron of Virginia City. Stacy and Adam Cartwright tangled with him, even recovered loot he had stolen from folks earlier on. Best of all, Stacy was able to given him a description. Granted, it wasn’t very much, just the description of the thief from the back as he made his escape, but still, it was SOMETHING.

Roy had left his office, and gone immediately to the place where Adam and Stacy had their encounter with the thief, full of optimism and high hopes. After all, as Adam had so dutifully pointed out, no one could have possibly missed seeing a man fleeing through the streets of Virginia City butt naked.

Roy’s hopes were cruelly dashed within the first few minutes. It seemed that the only thing every one agreed on was seeing a naked man run down the street, steal a horse tethered to the hitching post just outside the door of the International Hotel, and ride out of town. Roy winced. The thought of a naked man vigorously bumping up and down on a saddled horse trotting out of town was still enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“ ‘Evenin’, Roy,” Sam, the bartender greeted the sheriff affably. “What can I getcha?”

“Beer, Sam, no! Make that whiskey,” Roy said, “and make that whiskey a double!”

“Here y’ are, Roy,” Sam placed a bottle and a glass on the bar in front of the sheriff. “It’s the best I got an’ it’s on the house.”

“Now, Sam, I can’t . . . . ”

“Yes, you can, Roy,” Sam said firmly. “Just consider it my way of sayin’ thanks fer the job yer doin’ ‘round here.”

Roy managed a wan smile. “Thank YOU, Sam,” he said, pouring himself a generous glass.

“Any time, Roy,” Sam moved off to serve other customers.

Sam’s simple, thoughtful gesture raised his morale significantly, seeing as how it followed on the heels of a brutal hour and a half spent in his office with Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt, and a couple of councilmen, who also happened to be deacons at the good reverend’s church, scathingly castigating him non-stop for what in the clergyman’s opinion amounted to blundering incompetence and sheer ineptitude in failing to apprehend the thief.

Roy picked up the glass and swallowed its contents in a single gulp. As the ochre hued liquid burned its way down his throat, he all of a sudden realized that the thief’s lack of clothing was a stroke of pure genius. Every last one of the people he questioned remembered the naked man. Apart from that, no two descriptions matched, whether it be of the man’s face, footwear, what kind of horse he stole, or the direction he took when he presumably rode out of town.

Clara Mudgely, the church organist, insisted that the man in question was older than Methuselah, with a beard that reached all the way to his navel, bushy eyebrows, and a full head of white hair that came clear to his shoulders. Eloise Kirk, on the other hand, stoutly maintained that he was a handsome young man, clean shaven, with the innocent face of a Botticelli angel. The two ladies had almost come to blows over the disparities in their descriptions of the pickpocket right there in the middle of his office. Clay Hansen, owner of a spread called Five Card Draw, said the man had a long thin face with a pug nose that had been broken at least once.   His wife insisted the man's face was “ ‘rounder than the moon when it’s full,” and that he had a very long, aristocratic nose.

Those who alleged that the man had worn foot ware described everything from a pair of mismatched socks to the fanciest of cowboy boots with spurs. One outraged matron stolidly maintained the Robber Baron of Virginia City wore a pair of woman’s pink high heeled, high top button shoes.

No two people gave the same description of the stolen horse, either. People described everything from Joe Cartwright’s paint to a non-descript black, roan or chestnut. One person swore up and down the horse in question was an appaloosa. Roy knew for absolute fact that NO one, either in Virginia City or on any of the surrounding ranches, owned an appaloosa. None of the people he spoke to could recall which direction the man rode when he left town.

“SAM? SAM! WHAT’S A FELLA TO DO ABOUT GETTING SOME SERVICE AROUND HERE?”

The sound of Matt Wilson’s voice, bewildered at first then almost strident with angry frustration, roused Roy Coffee from his gloomy musings. He accurately discerned that the young man had attained the status of persona non-gratis at the Silver Dollar Saloon for breaking Clarissa Starling’s heart one more time too many. The infamous rivalry between Sally Tyler and Laurie Lee Bonner not withstanding, the folks who worked at the Silver Dollar saw themselves as family, and stood by each other accordingly.

“SAM!” Matt yelled at the top of his voice. “SAM? LAURIE LEE? LOTUS? SALLY? ANYBODY! IF I DON’T GET SOME SERVICE RIGHT NOW, I’LL . . . . ”

Roy reached out and placed a firm restraining hand on the younger man’s shoulder, to keep the latter from vaulting over the bar. “Matt, to be perfectly frank, I think you’d have better luck gettin’ yourself served elsewhere,” he said, not bothering to mince words.

“Why?” Matt queried, giving the sheriff a bewildered stare.

Roy rolled his eyes, and sighed. “Here y’ are, Matt,” he shoved the remaining bottle of whiskey and glass in front of the young man. “Cheers!”

“Thanks, Sheriff Coffee,” Matt accepted the proffered bottle and glass. As he lifted the bottle to fill the glass, his eyes darted around the room, resolutely moving from face to face.

Roy shook his head again. If he didn’t know for fact that Matt Wilson was getting himself hitched to Colleen O’Hanlan day after tomorrow, he’d almost swear the young man was looking for Clarissa Starling.

“You leavin’, Roy?” It was Sam once again.

“Yeah,” Roy replied. “It’s been a long day, Sam. A real long day! All I wanna do now is go right home and turn in early. Unfortunately, I promised the Widow Danvers I’d have supper with HER tonight.”

Sam blanched. “I hope you’re meeting her some place very public, an’ very crowded,” he said quietly.

Roy chucked. “Sam, you make her sound like some kinda murderess, or something.”

“Ain’t sure I’d put it past her, Roy. She had her matrimonial sights set on ME for a short time, before she found out I’m a bartender.” He shuddered. “Every time she’d see me, she’d look at me as if . . . as if I were something tasty to eat.”

“Tell you what, Sam,” Roy said, with a smile. “I’ll leave word with Clem that if I ain’t in my office at my usual time, he’s t’ send a search party after me.”

“Why don’t you take Matt Wilson with ya?” Sam suggested, directing a withering glare in the groom-to-be’s general direction. “He’s more than worn out his welcome HERE, and besides . . . if the Widow Danvers makes a move to bite you, or something, you can let her eat MATT. I admit he’s kinda scrawny, but he’d still make a decent enough appetizer long enough for YOU to make your escape.”

Roy Coffee heard the veiled hint loud and clear. “Sam, I can well understand why you an’ everyone else that works for ya here are mad at the guy,” he said, not without a measure of sympathy, “but, it’s a free country, and besides, his bachelor party’s bein’ held here tomorrow night.”

“I’m doin’ that for Ben and Adam Cartwright,” Sam stated with an emphatic nod of his head. “NOT for Matt Wilson.”

“Alright, but I expect you to behave yourself, Sam,” Roy said sternly.

“ . . . and if Matt gives ME trouble?”

“You know where the Widow Danvers lives, AND y’ know where I live,” Roy said. “If Matt starts makin’ trouble, you send someone to fetch me, alright?”

Sam nodded, satisfied. “G’ night, Roy.”

“Good night, Sam.”

“That’ll cost ya four bucks, Mister Wilson,” Sam turned on Matt, after the sheriff had left.

“What?”

“I SAID that’ll be four bucks!”

“B-but, you told Sheriff C-Coffee . . . . ”

“For SHERIFF COFFEE, it was the house,” Sam said. “For YOU, it’s four bucks.” He extended a beefy hand, palm up for emphasis.

Matt dug into his pocket, with a curt sigh of exasperation, and pulled out four silver dollars. He slapped them down on the counter, then lifted the bottle to his lips and took a big swallow of the remaining liquid contents. Sam picked up the money and pocketed it before moving to the far end of the bar to serve a couple of customers gathered there, much to Matt’s great relief. The bartender seemed to be mad at him about something, but for the life of him, he simply could not figure out what that something was.

 

“ ‘Evenin’, Jack,” Sam greeted Jack Hurley with a grin. He turned to the tall, muscular man standing beside the thin, wiry farmer. “Well bless my soul! I’d heard you’d come home from the sea, Apollo.” The bartender smiled broadly. “Welcome home!”

“Thanks,” Apollo said listlessly. “I may not be stayin’ long . . . . ”

“Oh?” A puzzled frown knotted Sam’s brow.

“Two beers, if you please, Sam,” Jack said quickly. “Tonight, the man’s drownin’ his sorrows.”

Sam well remembered the days when Colleen O’Hanlan and Apollo Nikolas were a lot younger and very much in love. Word had it that Apollo still carried the torch for the fair Colleen. “I understand. Two beers comin’ right up.”

“Good evening, Boys. What’ll ya have?” It was Clarissa Starling, addressing four middle aged, men seated at a round table about ten feet from the bar. All four of them smoked hand rolled Havana cigars, special ordered, and were nattily attired in three piece suits, custom tailored by the exacting fit.

Matt Wilson glanced up sharply. The sudden movement of his head combined with the effects of almost an entire bottle of whiskey caused him to loose balance. He toppled to the floor with a hard thud. “Cuh-Cuh-Clarissa?!?”

Clarissa froze, her face an odd mixture of stupefying astonishment, outrage, and a terrible sadness.

“We gotta talk, Clarissa,” Matt said, scrambling ungracefully to his feet.

Clarissa was too shocked even to reply.

Mistaking her silence for acquiescence, Matt took her by the forearm and started for a secluded table on the other side of the room.

“Matthew Wilson, you unhand me right now this instant!” Clarissa demanded, as outrage gained the upper hand over shock.

“Please, Clarissa . . . gotta s’plain something! ”

“You’re getting hitched to Colleen O’Hanlan the day after tomorrow,” she rounded on him furiously, on the edge of tears. “What’s left to explain?”

“Please, Clarissa . . . . ”

“Matt, if you don’t let go of me, I’m gonna scream.”

“Clarissa Starling, I’ve got somethin’ t’ say to you,” Matt said in a commanding, authoritative tone of voice, “and by golly, y’r gonna listen, if I have ta--- ”

Clarissa opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs, drawing the attention of the vast majority of patrons.

“I believe the lady’s made it perfectly clear that your attentions are not welcome,” a terse masculine voice came from behind.

Matt glanced up and saw Apollo Nikolas standing behind Clarissa, with a black, angry scowl on his face. “This is none o’ yur business, Apollo,” he declared.

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, Matt,” Apollo’s quiet, calm tone was at complete odds with the murderous scowl on his face. “This is every bit my business.”

Matt let go of Clarissa and followed through with a hard right cross in the same swift movement.

Apollo moved, impelled by instinct honed through years of bar room brawling in distant ports of call, barely dodging the intended blow. He immediately followed up with a powerful left hook, slamming his fist hard into Matt’s jaw. Matt fell backwards, crashing into the bar before collapsing back down onto the floor.

“Are you alright, uh . . . Miss?”

“Starling,” she said in a very small, very sad voice. “Clarissa Starling. YOU must be Sir Galahad.”

Apollo shook his head. “Hardly that, Miss Starling . . . . ”

“Please call me Clarissa.”

“Clarissa,” he said. “My name’s Apollo Nikolas.”

“Thank you for coming to my rescue, Apollo,” Clarissa said with a sad smile. “Can I show my appreciation by buying you a drink?”

“If things were different, I . . . I know I’d take you up on your kind offer, Dear Lady,” Apollo said dolefully. “As things stand now, I’d be comin’ after you on the rebound. That’s not fair to a . . . to a real nice lady like you . . . . ”

Clarissa felt the sting of tears in her eyes, as she watched Apollo shamble back across the room to where his brother-in-law stood at the bar. “Why?” she asked in agonized silence. “Why are all the decent ones always in love with someone else?”

Matt Wilson, meanwhile, opened his eyes and found himself staring up into the enraged face of the Silver Dollar’s bartender.

“Mister Wilson, seein’ as how you’re so hell bent on stirrin’ up trouble, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” Sam declared in a tone that brooked no argument.

“What?!”

“I SAID I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” Sam said once again.

“But, I didn’t . . . . ”

“I saw what went on betwixt you ‘n Apollo Nikolas,” Sam said. “If you don’t haul that sorry patoot o’ yours off the floor ‘n outta here, I’m gonna send for Sheriff Coffee.”

“On what charge?” Matt demanded, his own anger rising.

“Stirrin’ up trouble,” Sam maintained stubbornly, with arms folded across his broad chest.

“Ok, ok, I’m goin’,” Matt acquiesced sullenly, all the while wondering what burr had suddenly crawled up under Sam’s saddle.

“Don’t let the doors bang your butt on your way out,” Sam called after him.

Hoss and Joe Cartwright entered the Silver Dollar Saloon together. The youngest of the Cartwright brothers scanned the faces among the gathered crowd, obviously in search of someone. Hoss simply stared straight ahead, his eyes seeing nothing, his thoughts many miles away. A sudden collision with a patron leaving the Silver Dollar rudely jolted his thoughts and attention back to the here and now.

“Ya Big Lummox, why don’tcha watch were you’re walking?” It was Matt Wilson. His eyes were glassy, and his speech slurred.

Joe stared at the groom-to-be in a state of shock. As his initial surprise gave way to righteous indignation, he opened his mouth to speak.

“Sorry, Matt,” Hoss apologized quickly, before Joe could utter a word. His younger brother stared over at him in open, incredulous amazement.

“Aww, forget it,” Matt muttered, weaving his way down the sidewalk.

“I don’t believe this!” Joe sputtered. “I’ve heard of rude, but he’s just gone above and beyond!”

“Forget it, Baby Brother,” Hoss said. “He’s probably suffering a real bad case o’ the weddin’ day jitters right about now . . . . ”

Joe glared at Matt Wilson’s retreating form for a long moment, then shrugged.

Hoss ambled over to the bar, his thoughts once more focusing on the dilemma facing Apollo Nikolas and Colleen O’Hanlan. From the time he had finally left Doc Martin’s office with Adam and Teresa until the end of the supper meal, he had wracked his brain desperately seeking a solution, to the exclusion of everyONE and everyTHING around him . . . .

 

“Hoss?” his father had queried anxiously, after every one left the supper table. They were in the midst of moving the living room furniture from the middle of the room, over to the side. Stacy and Teresa cleared the table, while Hop Sing washed the dishes in the kitchen.

“Yeah, Pa?”

“You feeling alright?” Ben asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You hardly touched your supper . . . . ”

“I wasn’t hungry tonight, Pa.”

For one brief terrifying moment, Hoss had half feared his father was going to faint. “W-we had pork chops tonight . . . your favorite,” Ben finally stammered the minute he found his voice.

“I ain’t sick, Pa,” Hoss hastened to reassure. “I’m a little worried ‘bout Apollo ’s all.”

He was greatly relieved to see the muscles in his father’s face relax. “I’d heard that Apollo’s still carrying the torch for Colleen,” Ben said quietly.

“I told Apollo I’d meet ‘im at the Silver Dollar tonight.”

“Sure, by all means,” Ben had readily agreed. “It’d do Apollo a world of good to spend an evening with an old friend . . . maybe talk, have a few beers . . . . ”

“Pa,” Joe interjected quickly, without missing a beat, “Hoss and I BOTH promised we’d meet Apollo this evening.”

“We did?!” Hoss said, favoring his younger brother with a look of complete and utter bewilderment.

“We sure did, Big Brother,” Joe said smoothly.

Ben looked over at his youngest son, openly skeptical.

“Right, Hoss?” Joe prompted.

“ . . . . uuhhh, right! Yeah, Pa . . . that’s right . . . . ” Hoss stammered after Joe had cued him with a sharp elbow jab to the rib cage.

Ben focused that all-knowing-all-seeing glare on Hoss for what seemed an eternity. In the end, their father had elected not to pursue the matter. “Have a good time, Boys, and stay out of trouble . . . . ” Something, either in the words or tone of voice, told Hoss the subject was far from closed, however . . . .

 

“Hey, Hoss, what can I get for ya?”

“Beer, Sam,” Hoss replied dolefully, his thoughts returning to the present. He glanced around the room for his younger brother, but saw neither hide nor hair of him. “Whatever scheme HE’S got cookin’, I’m stayin’ well out of it!” he vowed silently.

Joe Cartwright, meanwhile, made his way unobtrusively toward the back door of the saloon, with head down and hat pulled low over his eyes. Upon reaching the back door, he paused with hand firmly on the doorknob, and glanced over the sea of faces gathered in the saloon tonight. He noted with satisfaction that Hoss stood at the far end of the bar, closest to the front door, talking with Sam. Joe averted his gaze to the floor again, before noiselessly opening the door and stepping into the alley beyond.

Closing the back door behind him, Joe slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding. He half feared that Hoss would see him leave and begin asking questions. Although he knew his big brother was trustworthy, he also knew Hoss was transparently honest. The big guy, quite frankly, couldn’t even tell the pure truth sometimes without looking incredibly guilty, especially when their father asked the questions. Joe knew beyond any shadow of doubt there would be questions when he and Hoss returned home. The less Hoss knew about his plans right now, the better.

Sam, meanwhile, came and placed a mug of cold beer in front of Hoss.

“Sam,” Hoss asked, “is Apollo Nikolas here by any chance?”

“Over there, with his brother-in-law,” Sam nodded his head toward the opposite end of the bar, where Jack Hurley and Apollo Nikolas stood together, side-by-side.

“Thanks.” Hoss picked up his mug of beer and walked over toward Apollo and his brother-in-law. “ ‘Evenin’, Apollo . . . ‘evenin’, Jack.”

“Hey, Hoss, I haven’t seen ya in a dog’s age,” Jack smiled and greeted him warmly. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine, Jack, just fine,” Hoss replied. “How ‘bout you, Athena, an’ the young ‘ns?”

“We’re all fine,” Jack replied. The warmth and smile faded. “Harlan’s got himself a gal.”

Hoss grinned. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah . . . . ” Jack sighed.

“What’s the matter, Jack? You sure don’t sound too happy ‘bout it.”

“I’d be dancing through the streets of Virginia City with joy,” Jack said dolefully, “if the gal in question were anybody BUT Pruella Danvers.”

“Pruella Danvers?” Hoss echoed incredulously. He grimaced, as if he had just eaten something incredibly sour. “Pruella Danvers?!”

“Yeah,” Jack shook his head.

“What could Harlan, or any other fella f’r that matter, possibly see in Pruella Danvers?”

“I can tell you what I see in that gal, Hoss,” Jack said grimly. “I see a greedy li’l gussie, always after Harlan to buy her expensive doo-dads with money he don’t have. That gal ‘n her ma both are a couple o’ phonies, struttin’ around, puttin’ on fancy-schmancy airs, playin’ rich.” He sighed and shook his head. “T’ give credit where it’s due, though, Athena saw all that in ‘em long b’fore I did.”

“My sister’s ALWAYS been a shrewd judge of character,” Apollo said quietly.

“That she has,” Jack agreed with a proud smile, “that she has. Well, speaking of Athena, I DID promise her I’d be home early . . . . ”

“You mind if I stay and spend some time with Hoss?” Apollo asked.

“I’M the one who promised to be home early tonight, Apollo, not you,” Jack said with a grin. “You ‘n Hoss enjoy yourselves. I’ll let Athena know.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Apollo said with a grateful smile. “See you at home later.”

“G’night, Jack,” Hoss called after Apollo’s brother-in-law. “Good talkin’ with ya.”

“ ‘Night, Hoss . . . . ”

“Well, Hoss?” Apollo pounced the minute his brother-in-law had moved out of earshot. “Were you able to come up with any ideas?”

“Not a dadburn thing!” Hoss shook his head dolefully. “How ‘bout YOU, Apollo?”

Apollo shook his head.

“Refills, Gentlemen?”

“Gimme another beer, Sam,” Hoss said.

“Make mine whiskey this time,” Apollo sighed gloomily. “A bottle with glass.”

“Sam, make that a just GLASS o’ whiskey,” Hoss said.

“Hoss, what’re you doing?” Apollo demanded. “I think NOW’S the time to start drowning my sorrows, if it’s all the same t’ you.”

“Ain’t you jumpin’ the gun by a wee bit?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we got ‘til Saturday t’ come up with somethin’,” Hoss said firmly. “I know it ain’t much, but it’s still a whole day ‘n a half yet.”

“We’ll never come up with anything in that short a time,” Apollo protested.

“That’s gonna be for dadburn sure if ‘n y’ start drinkin’ whole bottles o’ whiskey like it was water,” Hoss hastened to point out. “On the other hand, if ‘n the two o’ us can keep ourselves half way sober . . . . ”

“Hoss, it’s no use!” Apollo said exasperation mixing with grief.

“There’s always the obvious solution.”

“What obvious solution is that?”

“You ‘n Colleen can always run off ‘n elope. You sure wouldn’t be the first, ‘n I doubt you’d be t’ last.”

Apollo shook his head. “Colleen won’t even consider it.”

“Have y’ ASKED her?”

“Of course I have,” Apollo said bitterly. “Colleen told me that if we can’t figure something out, she’s gonna feel obligated to go through with this . . . this damned Wedding of the Century.”

Hoss lapsed into melancholy silence.

 

Outside, Cochise nickered affectionately as Joe approached the hitching post on the street right in front of the Silver Dollar Saloon. His eyes, round with alarm, darted up beyond the swinging doors to the bar just beyond. Thankfully, Hoss had joined Apollo and his brother-in-law, Jack, at the other end of the bar.

“Thank goodness,” Joe whispered aloud, as he exhaled a long sigh of relief. “Easy, Cooch, we gotta keep it quiet . . . . ”

Joe quickly untethered Cochise, and slowly led him away from the post and the other horses tethered there. Once he was satisfied that he and his horse were far enough away from the potential hearing ears of the saloon patrons, Joe climbed on Cochise’s back and rode off in the direction of Blood Alley, and the home of Lotus O’Toole.

“Good evening, Joe,” Lotus greeted him with a wan smile. “Please come in.”

The room within was bare, save for a wood table with four chairs, a small oval rug that Lotus had spent the better part of a year crafting in what little spare time she had, and the framed photograph of her parents sitting on the mantle. Joe silently followed Lotus over to the table.

“Coffee?” Lotus offered. “I have some ready.”

“Yes, thank you,” Joe nodded, taking a seat at the table. “I see you and Timmy have gotten yourselves settled in.” He glanced up, his hazel eyes meeting her dark ones. “You work fast!”

“I didn’t have much to unpack,” Lotus said quietly. She grabbed a towel and removed the coffee pot from its spot over the low fire burning in the fireplace.

“I . . . thought you were going to move . . . well, somewhere closer to the school,” Joe said, glancing about the room in dismay, “seein’ as how Timmy’ll be starting first grade in the fall.”

“This is all I can afford,” she said, returning to the table with coffee pot in hand. She picked up one of three clean mugs on the table and filled it.

“That can’t be, Lotus,” Joe protested. He accepted the mug, taking hold of it in both hands. He blew on the hot liquid, then took a ginger sip from the mug. “As I recall, there were two fine houses near the school. One was almost next-door. When we looked at ‘em, the real estate man said it would only be twenty a month for the first, twenty-FIVE for the second. I thought you COULD afford that.”

“The real estate man came to see me at the Silver Dollar later that night, Joe,” Lotus said with a touch of rancor. “He told me that some emergency expenses had come up, of which he wasn’t aware when he showed US those houses. Instead of twenty dollars on the one and twenty-five on the other, the rent suddenly rose to one hundred dollars a month . . . on both.”

“That’s outrageous!” Joe declared, his face darkening with anger. “Did he say what the exact nature of those expenses are?”

“Joe, you know as well as I do what the exact nature of those expenses are,” Lotus said. “My mother was Chinese, I have a fine strapping son but no husband, and I work in a saloon.”

“That’s not right!” Joe muttered through clenched teeth.

“It’s the way things are.”

“I’ve got half a mind to--- ”

“Joe, don’t!” Lotus said sternly. “You raising a fuss could get Timmy and me thrown out of HERE.”

“That overseer’s cottage on the Ponderosa’s available,” Joe said, “rent FREE.”

Lotus shook her head. “Joe, we’ve been over that ground time and time again,” she said in a firm tone. “I’ve paid my way in this world since I was fifteen years old. I expect to continue paying my way until I draw my last breath.”

“Lotus, you and I’ve been friends ‘way too long for you to be spouting that kind of nonsense,” Joe protested.

“Joe, I will not accept charity, in any way, shape, or form, no matter how well intentioned . . . especially from a friend,” Lotus said. “You may consider the subject closed.”

“For now,” Joe insisted.

“Period!” Lotus countered with an emphatic nod of her head. She and Joe glared at each other for a long moment. “So, do you want to know about that music box, or not?” she queried finally.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Joe said contritely, managing a wan half smile.

“Clarissa Starling has it in her room at the Silver Dollar.”

“You sure?”

Lotus nodded with a smug grin.

“How’d you find out?”

“Easy! I asked her,” Lotus said. “She was bragging about it to anyone who would listen. I figured she’d tell me too, if I posed as a willing listener.”

“That’s pretty brazen!” Joe said gazing over at her with a look of profound respect.

“When are you planning to get the music box back?”

“I was thinking of stopping in to get it while the bachelor party’s going on,” Joe replied. “Pa and my older brothers won’t be at home to ask me a lot of questions I’d rather not answer.”

“That’ll have to do,” Lotus said quietly. “Just promise me that you won’t come before then.”

“Sure,” Joe agreed with a shrug. “Any particular reason why?”

“Sally Tyler’s been working on Clarissa, trying to convince her to do the right thing on her own,” Lotus explained. “So far, Sally’s pleas have fallen on deaf ears, but I’d like to give Sally time to make her case.” She fell silent for a moment. “Joe, Clarissa was really devastated when Matt went back with Colleen this time. The two of them were talking about a wedding of their own. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making excuses for her. I just want you to understand.”

“I’ll try, Lotus,” Joe promised. “I just hope YOU can understand where Molly and Frankie O’Hanlan are coming from on this, too. It took the two of ‘em a whole year to save for that music box, and another four months for it to arrive overland from New York. They’re pretty devastated, too.”

“Special gift for a sister they must love very much,” Lotus said quietly. “That I can understand very well.”

“Here’s hoping Clarissa listens to Sally,” Joe said.

“Amen to that!”

 

 

End of Part 2.


	3. Chapter 3

“Good evenin’ t’ ya, Boys.” Mick O’Flynn sauntered up to the bar, and took his place on the other side of Hoss. He silently studied Hoss and Apollo for a moment, then shook his head. “You fellas look low enough t’ walk upright under t’ belly of a rattler.”

Hoss nodded and tipped his hat by way of greeting. “Apollo ‘n me . . . we’ve gotta problem , Mister O’Flynn,” he sighed. “A BIG problem!” Suddenly, a smile appeared on his face. “Say, Mister O’Flynn, maybe ya c’n help us.”

Mick shrugged. “I c’n try, Hoss,” he said.

Sam came with Apollo Nikolas’ glass of whiskey and placed it on the bar before him. “ ‘Evenin’, Mister O’Flynn. Beer?”

“If you please,” Mick nodded solemnly.

“Another glass of whiskey for me, too, please,” Apollo said.

“You ain’t drunk that, Apollo,” Sam hastened to point out.

“By the time you come back with Mister O’Flynn’s beer I WILL have,” Apollo said.

Sam nodded and moved off.

“Now then, Boys, what’s worryin’ t’ two o’ YOU?” Mick asked turning his attention back to Hoss and Apollo.

“Well, it’s like this, Mister O’Flynn . . . . ”

Suddenly, a young patron, wearing a white hat down low over his face, bumped into Mick O’Flynn from behind. Mick lost his balance and fell hard against the bar. He groaned softly then crumpled to the floor.

Apollo watched as the young man made his way to the door. “That guy’s sure walking funny,” he remarked with a bewildered frown, “kinda bowlegged almost.”

“Never mind him,” Hoss said tersely. “We need t’ see t’ Mister O’Flynn here. He could be hurt bad.” He and Apollo knelt down on either side of the fallen man.

“H-Hoss . . . . ? Mister, uuhhh . . . Mister . . . .?”

“Nikolas, Sir. Apollo Nikolas.”

“Did t’ pair o’ ya know that y’ were TWINS?”

“We’d better get ‘im over to Doc Martin’s fast,” Apollo murmured, his dark eyes round with shocked horror.

“Don’t bother, Apollo.” It was Sam, the bartender. “ ‘By nightfall, he’s more often than not ALWAYS seein’ double. Just help him up to his feet, if you would.”

“Sure,” Hoss nodded. He took Mick O’Flynn by the left shoulder, Apollo took him by the right. Together, with ease, they lifted the elderly con man out from under the bar counter and stood him up between the two of them.

“Thank y’ kindly, Boys, I’m very much obliged,” Mick said with a lopsided smile.

“You’re bettin’ book fell outta your pocket, Mister O’Flynn,” Hoss said as he bent down to retrieve it.

“My accounting ledger, Hoss, please,” Mick corrected him loftily.

“Alright your accountin’ ledger, then,” Hoss muttered as he retrieved the black book lying open on the floor. He stood up, then glanced down at the book lying open in his hands.

Two entries caught his eye:

“Twenty dollars the Wedding of Matt Wilson and Colleen O’Hanlan will NOT take place. Another twenty dollars that Colleen will take up with Apollo Nikolas and Matt will get back together with Clarissa Starling,” Hoss read the entry in silence. “Signed Joseph Francis Cartwright!”

The entry directly below came as a very stunning surprise. “One dollar the Wedding of the Century will be . . . . ” Hoss whistled and shook his head. “Talk about your long shots,” he murmured. Upon seeing the NAME of the person placing that particular bet, his jaw dropped. “Stacy Rose Cartwright.”

“Well whaddya know!” Hoss slapped Mick O’Flynn’s accounting ledger closed. A big smile spread slowly across his face. “My li’l sister’s a genius!”

“Wha’ was that?” Mick demanded.

“Nothin’, Mister O’Flynn, nothin’ at all,” Hoss said, handing the man his accounting ledger. “Apollo, you come on with me. We got us a few things t’ talk about.”

“That’ll be fifty cents, Hoss,” Sam the bartender said, placing a full mug of beer in front of Mick O’Flynn. “Apollo, yours is a buck fifty.”

Hoss and Apollo paid their bill, then retired, drinks in hand to a secluded table in the back of the room.

“Mister O’Flynn! Mister O’Flynn!”

Mick O’Flynn glanced up sharply from his place at the bar, near the entrance, in time to see Barney Murphy stepping lively past the swinging doors. “Over here, Barney,” he called out, waving.

“Mister O’Flynn, you’ll never guess what?” Barney said, stepping up to the bar.

“What is it I’ll never guess what, now?” Mick asked.

“Sheriff Coffee’s going to be very busy this evening, very, very busy indeed,” Barney reported with a big, almost triumphant grin.

“Oh? Doin’ what?” Mick said. He lifted the mug to his lips and finished the remaining beer.

“He’s havin’ supper with the Widow Danvers!” Barney said. “I heard him tellin’ Sam before he left.”

Mick shuddered. “They ought to call that old battle axe the BLACK Widow Danvers,” he said, feeling a pang of sorrow for the good sheriff of Virginia City.

“I saw her when she invited the good sheriff to supper this mornin’,” Barney said, his eyes round with horror. “Ach, Mister O’Flynn, it was a horrible, blood curdlin’ sight to behold it was! The Widow Danvers was actually hidin’ out in an alley lyin’ in wait for the poor man, yes she was.” He paused, melodramatically. “She pounced on him, she did, fairly leapin’ from the shadows like a stalkin’ puma.”

“Holy Mary Mother of God,” Mick murmured, as he quickly crossed himself with trembling hand. “So the Widow Danvers has set her cap for Sheriff Coffee, eh?”

“Oh no,” Barney shook his head. “I overheard her talkin’ t’ other day with Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . . ”

Mick O’Flynn gasped. “Saints preserve us,” he muttered, crossing himself once again. “May the Holy and Blessed Saints preserve us all! If ever a deadly pair of harpies existed, there could be none deadlier that Myra Danvers and Myrna O’Hanlan.”

“It seems the Widow Danvers has set her cap for Ben Cartwright,” Barney said.

“BEN CARTWRIGHT?!” Mick cried out, as he turned to gaze upon his partner and protégé through eyes round with astonishment. “Agggh! Get ON with ya!”

“It’s the God’s honest truth!” Barney passionately declared.

“After t’ way Ben Cartwright ripped that schemin’ harpy up one side ‘n back down t’ other?!” Mick queried, shaking his head in utter disbelief. He had heard at least a dozen versions of the tale, each more colorful, exhilarating, and bloodthirsty than the last. What he wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall that day . . . .

“The Widow Danvers told Mrs. O’Hanlan and the bank president’s wife, too! . . . that Ben Cartwright was “so-ooooo very masterful . . . . ” this last Barney delivered with a scathing impersonation of Myra Danvers voice that brought amused smiles from the men standing nearest him and Mick O’Flynn at the bar, “ . . . with this . . . this . . . real sappy look on her face.” He grimaced.

Mick groaned loudly. “I can’t say as I had much likin’ for the LATE Mister High-‘n-Mighty Ben Cartwright, may t’ poor man rest in peace, but no one . . . NO ONE . . . be he man, woman, child, or mule . . . deserves t’ die so horrible a death!”

“Amen,” Barney piously intoned.

“But if t’ good Widow Danvers has set her cap for Ben Cartwright . . . why in t’ world is she takin’ supper with Sheriff Coffee?” Mick wondered aloud with a puzzled frown.

“Because Sheriff Coffee ‘n Ben Cartwright are good friends, and have been for a long time,” Barney replied. “I heard herself tell THAT to Mrs. O’Hanlan, too.”

“So . . . the Black Widow Spider’s out t’ pick the sheriff’s brains for t’ way t’ Ben Cartwright’s heart,” Mick mused with a shudder.

Barney nodded.

“ . . . an’ knowin’ the good Widow Danvers as I do, she’ll be havin’ Sheriff Coffee for supper . . . as the main course. May HE rest in peace, too.”

“ ‘Evenin’, Mister O’Flynn . . . Barney,” Sam greeted both affably. “Another beer, Mister O’Flynn?”

“Yes, please,” Mick answered, handing his empty mug back to the bartender.

“What would you like, Barney?”

“Beer, if you please.”

“Comin’ up,” Sam moved off to fill their orders.

“I can’t understand you one bit, Mister O’Flynn,” the younger man said, shaking his head in utter bewilderment.

“What’s not to understand, Barney?”

“You feelin’ sorry for Ben Cartwright now that he’s got the Widow Danvers hot on his trail,” Barney queried, looking over at his mentor as if the man had lost every ounce of good sense he may have ever possessed. “I’d’ve thought you’d see it as him gettin’ his comeuppance, especially after that incident with all them Chinese noodles.”

“Ah, the infamous Lo Mein Affair,” Mick said, as Sam quietly served up their mugs of beer.

Barney nodded.

“There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence an’ rumor, mind,” Mick said, “but, not a shred of cold hard proof at all at all of ANY of the Cartwrights bein’ directly connected to that fracas. Even if there was NO one deserves havin’ a gorgon like the Widow Danvers on his tail.”

“Mick?”

Mick O’Flynn turned and saw Macon Fitzhugh standing directly behind him.

“I done brung ya m’ church key,” he said, placing it into Mick O’Flynn’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you, in the name o’ free enterprisin’ business folk such as m’self,” Mick said, accepting the key. “Come along, Barney, m’ boy! You an’ I have a lot o’ work t’ do.”

“Just a moment, Mister O’Flynn.” It was Sam. “That’ll be a buck for the two beers.”

“Of course . . . Hey!” Mick gasped, as he fumbled through the back pocket of his pants. “Me wallet’s gone!”

 

“I need to ask ya one question,” Hoss said, as he and Apollo seated themselves at one of the more secluded tables lining the back wall of the public room. “If you had the chance would YOU be willin’ to take Matt Wilson’s place as the groom day after t’morrow?”

“I’d do it in a heartbeat, Hoss,” Apollo declared passionately. “You suggesting we kidnap Matt and tie him up somewhere ‘til the wedding’s over?”

“Only as a last resort,” Hoss said. “I was more thinkin’ along the lines o’ gettin’ Matt Wilson ‘n Clarissa Starling back together.”

Apollo’s face fell. “I . . . I’m . . . afraid I put the kabosh on THAT idea,” he sighed dolefully.

“What d’ya mean, Apollo?” Hoss asked, a bewildered frown knotting his brow.

Apollo ruefully recounted what had transpired earlier between Matt and Clarissa, and his own part in things.

“That ain’t necessarily a bad thing,” Hoss said smiling. “It tells me Matt must still care an awful lot about Clarissa, or else he wouldn’t be here tryin’ t’ explain things.”

“You have a point there, Hoss,” Apollo murmured thoughtfully.

“ . . . an’ accordin’ to the scuttlebutt goin’ around, Matt ‘n Clarissa were talkin’ about their own weddin’ b’fore he an’ Colleen got themselves back together,” Hoss continued.

“So how do we get Matt and CLARISSA back together?”

“That’s what we gotta figure out.”

“I was afraid of that!”

“Dadburn it, Apollo . . . don’t you DARE start losin’ hope ‘n getting’ all weak in the knees NOW! We can DO this, if ‘n the two of us really put on our thinkin’ caps.”

 

“ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three,” Ben and Stacy chanted together in unison, as father led daughter through the basic steps of the waltz. After supper, Ben and Hoss had moved the furniture from the center of the living room area, creating an ample dance floor. Now Adam sat behind the desk, with an ice pack pressed to his nose, while Teresa perched on its edge, and watched the dancing lesson progress with interest.

“Very good, Stacy,” Ben said with a smile. “Now let’s try it again WITHOUT you watching your feet.”

“WITHOUT watching my feet?” Stacy gulped, not sure she was ready for this next step.

“You can do it, Stacy,” Teresa said with an encouraging smile.

“All you have to do is relax and follow my lead,” Ben said.

“OK, Pa, I’ll try,” Stacy said, not without trepidation.

“Now just relax, and . . . ONE, two, three,” Ben led her around the makeshift ballroom once again.

“ONE, two, three,” Stacy counted along with her father.

“Look up at me, not down at your feet,” Ben urged her gently. “ONE, two, three, ONE, two three . . . . ”

“ONE, two, three,” Stacy once again joined in the counting. Within a short time, she began to relax in spite of herself, and follow Ben’s lead.

“Hey, Little Sister, I think you’ve got it,” Adam declared with a broad smile.

“I do?” Stacy queried in genuine amazement. “Really?”

“Yes, you do,” Ben affirmed with a proud smile. He turned to his eldest. “Adam?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“I think Stacy’s ready to try it with music,” Ben said. “Did I see a guitar case among your luggage?”

“Yes, you did, Pa,” Adam said, removing the ice pack from his nose. His nose was still red and swollen, causing his speech to be slightly nasal, and the blue-violet bruising around both eyes gave him the appearance of a masked raccoon.

“You sit still, Adam,” Teresa said rising. “I’LL go get it.”

Teresa went up the stairs, and returned a few moments later with her husband’s guitar, and several pages of sheet music. “Adam, you must be getting psychic as you approach middle age,” she remarked with a smile. “This piece you’ve been working on for the last six weeks is the perfect piece.” She handed Adam the sheet music.

“Ah yes,” Adam smiled, as he spread the sheets out on the desk before him.

Teresa handed him the guitar. Adam took a moment to make certain everything was in tune, then played the first notes of “The Blue Danube Waltz.” Teresa began to hum along.

Ben turned to his daughter, smiling. “Stacy, may I have this dance?”

“Yes, you may, Pa,” she agreed readily, returning his smile.

“ONE, two, three . . . . ” Ben counted softly.

“ONE, two, three . . . . ” Stacy’s thoughts drifted back to a spring day, long ago, when she still lived with the Paiute clan of Chief Soaring Eagle. She and some of the other young children had picked wild flowers growing in the meadow, where the tribe had set up camp, along the banks a creek, that flowed through the open sunlit meadow into deep forest. One of children had accidentally dropped her flowers into the swift running waters of the creek, swollen by winter melt from the surrounding mountains.

Borne aloft on the surface of the water, the flowers danced, moving and circling to the tempo set by the swift flowing currents. The counting faded to silence as the flow of melody slowly and steadily permeated her spirit, moving her body in time with its gentle rhythm, as the waters of the creek moved the flowers on that spring day, so long ago. Thus entranced, her awkward self-consciousness ebbed, leaving behind a confident, even graceful dancer.

“Music!” Ben exclaimed with a smile, when the last strains of the waltz faded into silence. “Stacy, that’s just what you needed to take you from someone who couldn’t take her eyes off her feet to the beautiful dancer you really are!”

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy said, still reeling from the effects of the potent spell cast by the music. She turned and impulsively gave Ben a big, affectionate hug. “Having a good teacher helps a lot, too.”

“Well, I’ll be a pole cat’s first cousin!” It was Joe. He stood leaning against the front door, divested of jacket, gun belt, and hat, with his arms folded across his chest. He smiled. “The Kid actually dances as well as she fences!”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment, Baby Brother?” Adam demanded.

“Yes, it IS supposed to be a compliment,” Stacy said smiling. “This morning, after we finished with my fencing lessons, he told me I was a natural.”

Joe looked back at Adam with an annoying, smug cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, and thumbed up his nose.

Adam favored his youngest brother with a disdainful withering glare, then stuck out his tongue.

“I DO have an ulterior motive for teaching you how to dance, Young Woman,” Ben confessed.

“Oh? What’s that, Pa?”

“The Widow Danvers is going to be at The Wedding and the reception,” Ben said gravely. “I expect you to protect me by saving all your dances for me.”

Stacy frowned. “That no good, brazen bi---er, uhhh . . . HUSSY! . . . sure has HER nerve!” she said indignantly.

“Those were pretty strong words, Stacy . . . almost,” Teresa observed quietly. “What did this Widow Danvers do to deserve them?”

“That, Teresa, is a very long and very complicated story,” Ben said quietly.

“As for the words, I’m being overly polite,” Stacy said grimly. “Pa won’t let me use the words that say what I REALLY think of her.”

“In English OR in Paiute,” Ben added meaningfully.

“Not to mention a few Irish slang variations,” Joe added remembering a time when Colleen O’Hanlan had occasion to ream the ‘good’ Widow Danvers out royally, using words that would have made her once and former love, Apollo the sailor, blush.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Pa,” Stacy said. “I won’t let Mrs. Danvers anywhere NEAR you. If she tries to cut in, I’ll tell her to go take a long walk off a of real short plank.”

“If that fails, Stacy can always follow through with that deadly right cross of hers,” Joe added.

“If it comes down to THAT, Stacy, I promise to protect YOU from Sheriff Coffee, after Mrs. Danvers presses charges,” Ben said with a smile.

“Pa . . . Adam . . . you mind if I borrow Stacy and Teresa?” Joe asked. “It’ll only be for a moment or two . . . . ”

“Would it be too much to ask you WHY you want to borrow Stacy add Teresa?” Adam asked, his eyes narrowing.

“To be up front and perfectly honest . . . yes! It WOULD be too much to ask,” Joe quipped with an affable grin. “Anyone ever tell you you’re overly suspicious, Oldest Brother?”

“If he is, he takes after his father,” Ben said.

“Oh yeah?” Joe asked. “How do you figure?”

“Because I’D like to know the answer to that question myself,” Ben replied.

Joe flinched away from the dark, suspicious glares his father and oldest brother leveled in his direction. “Alright, Pa . . . Adam . . . . ” he sighed, resigned, “if you MUST know . . . . ”

“We must!” Ben said very quietly.

Adam nodded in complete agreement.

“Stacy, Teresa, and I have decided to spend tomorrow night in town together, while the two of you and Hoss go to that bachelor party,” Joe said.

Teresa and Stacy briefly exchanged glances. This was the first time either one had even heard of such plans.

“We thought we’d have dinner, and maybe take in that poetry reading at the public library,” Joe blithely continued. “We just need to finalize some of the details.”

“I think that’s a fine idea,” Ben approved. “You three go ahead and talk. I need to sit down and rest a bit, anyway.”

“We’ll just step outside a minute,” Joe said, motioning for his sister and sister-in-law to follow.

“We’ll be right back,” Teresa said with a smile, as she and Stacy followed Joe out through the front door.

“Pa, Little Joe’s up to something,” Adam said, frowning. “You know that . . . don’t you?”

“Yes, I know,” Ben sighed. “Your youngest brother’s as transparent as a pane of glass. But, whatever it is, I’m more than confident that a mature, no nonsense woman like Teresa is more than able put a stop to any and all wild shenanigans Joe and Stacy are capable of dreaming up.”

Adam opened his mouth to speak, only to change his mind and close it completely. He didn’t quite have the heart to remind his father that he had only seen Teresa’s no nonsense maturity when she dealt with the shenanigans of young Benjy and Dio. Adam knew all too well that his loving wife Teresa had her own wild, playful side. Although he thoroughly enjoyed that part of her, he also knew that his wife was more than capable of leading Joe and Stacy into wild adventures the like of which neither had ever dreamed.

 

“What’s up, Grandpa?” Stacy turned and demanded, the instant they had put a discreet distance between themselves and the house. “This is the first WE’VE heard about any plans for Friday night.”

“Ssshhh! Would you keep your voice down?” Joe cast a quick, furtive glance in the direction of the house. “I now know for absolute certain where the O’Hanlans’ music box is,” he said, taking great care to keep his voice low.

“You do?” Stacy asked, sotto voce. “Where?”

“It’s in the clutches of one Miss Clarissa Starling,” Joe said with a dark scowl, remembering the beer she had dashed in his face earlier. “She’s got it hidden upstairs in her room at the Silver Dollar.”

“How do YOU know?” Stacy asked.

“I stopped by to see Lotus O’Toole this evening,” Joe explained.

“Who’s Lotus O’Toole?” Teresa asked.

“She’s the lady who offered to buy me a drink at the Silver Dollar this afternoon,” Joe replied. “She told me THEN that she had her SUSPICIONS about Clarissa having that music box in her possession, but she wasn’t sure. She told me she’d have more information tonight.”

“So THAT’S why you all of a sudden told Pa that you and Hoss were meeting Apollo Nikolas tonight,” Stacy said grinning. “I just hope you know what kind of dreadful example you’re setting for a sweet, innocent, impressionable child like me.”

“Right,” Joe returned with a touch of sarcasm. “This from the kid who hauled off and kicked a well known master thief and con man in the shins, and like as not could teach the likes of the Earps and Doc Holiday some new tricks.”

Stacy responded by sticking out her tongue.

Joe immediately returned the gesture.

“What did Lotus O’Toole have to say when you went to see her this evening?” Teresa asked, pulling their conversation back on track.

Joe told his sister and sister-in-law everything that Lotus O’Toole had learned concerning the whereabouts of the O’Hanlans’ music box.

“That’s kind of strange,” Teresa said thoughtfully.

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“If I had stolen a music box, the LAST thing I’D do would be to brag about it,” Teresa said. “I’d want to sell it, get the cash, and run.”

“Teresa’s right about THAT, Grandpa,” Stacy said. “Did Lotus say WHY Clarissa’s keeping the music box?”

“All we have is theory, actually,” Joe replied. “The last three or four times Matt and Colleen called off the wedding, he took up with Clarissa Starling. Lotus said this LAST time there was talk of Matt and Clarissa planning their own wedding, before HE got back with Colleen and THEY started planning for The Wedding of the Century.”

“I see,” Teresa murmured.

“You sound like you agree with Clarissa,” Stacy looked over at her sister-in-law with a mixture of shock and outrage.

“Not at all,” Teresa said quietly. “Yes . . . I CAN understand Clarissa’s motives for keeping it, but doing so presumably to spite Matt isn’t fair to Molly, or Frankie either, even if he WAS careless. I saw how upset Molly was in the dress shop.”

“After Hoss took you and Adam to see Doctor Martin, Molly was so grief-stricken, she almost had ME crying,” Stacy said.

“Poor Frankie was pretty devastated, too,” Joe added.

“You got a plan to get it back?” Teresa asked, noting the wild, anticipatory gleam in her young brother-in-law’s hazel eyes for the first time.

“Yes,” Joe replied, “but I can’t it manage alone.”

“Whatever it is, you can count ME in, Grandpa,” Stacy said, her eyes shining with her own growing excitement. “When do we do the deed?”

“Tomorrow night, while that bachelor party for Matt’s in full swing,” Joe replied.

“Why during the bachelor party?” Stacy asked.

“The second reason for waiting until the bachelor party is Lotus told me that Sally Tyler’s been pressuring Clarissa to do the right thing and return the music box to the O’Hanlans,” Joe replied. “I promised Lotus to give Sally until the start of the bachelor party to do that.”

“Does this Sally Tyler know about your plan to retrieve the music box?” Teresa asked.

Joe shook his head. “Only Lotus.”

“OK, Grandpa, what’s your FIRST reason for pulling off the music box raid during the bachelor party?” Stacy asked.

“Pa, Adam, and Hoss will be at the party,” Joe replied with a smug grin. “That leaves US free to go out tomorrow night without running the risk of being asked a lot of embarrassing questions.”

“Sounds like you have all the bases covered, Joe,” Teresa said approvingly.

“Pretty much,” Joe replied with confidence. “You in with Stacy and me?”

“You bet I am!” Teresa said, with a smile of pure devilment. “I have a feeling that whatever you’ve got in the works is sure going to beat spending a nice, quiet evening at home.”

“Stacy?”

“Yeah, Grandpa?”

“When do you see Molly next?” Joe asked.

“Oh, I imagine we’ll all see them first thing in the morning,” Stacy replied, “when they take Pa and me up on our invitation!”

“What invitation?” Teresa asked.

“Stacy and Pa invited Molly and her brother to come visit when things got tense at home,” Joe explained. “Tomorrow being the day before The Wedding, it’s not gonna take all that much to get Mrs. O’Hanlan tense.”

“Hmpf!” Stacy snorted. “I think that woman was BORN tense!”

“We’ll talk to Frankie and Molly when they come tomorrow,” Joe said. “Hopefully, they’ll join us in our little caper.”

“I know Molly will,” Stacy said.

“She’s become quite the adventurer in the five going on six years you’ve known her, Little Sister,” Joe remarked with a smile.

“According to Mrs. O’Hanlan, that can be directly blamed, on not only MY bad influence, but the bad influence of my family as well,” Stacy said proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

“Good for you, Stacy,” Teresa said candidly.

“I think we’d better go in before Pa and Adam think of trying to sneak up on us under the cover of surrounding rocks and bushes,” Joe suggested, glancing over his shoulder at the house. “When we get back inside . . . just act casual.”

 

“Well?” Ben pressed. “Can you hear anything?”

“No . . . not a thing,” Adam replied, shaking his head.

Father and his oldest son stood next to the front door, ever so slightly ajar, with their ears pressed hard against the opening.

“Can they see the house?” Ben asked.

“Joe and Teresa are facing away from the house,” Adam replied. “Stacy’s focused on them mostly, but she keeps an occasional eye on the front door.”

“Maybe, when Stacy’s not looking, we can sneak out to that large rock over there,” Ben suggested.

“Too late for that, Pa!” Adam hissed. “They’re coming!”

“Back to the settee! Now!” Ben ordered sotto voce. “And act casual!”

When Joe, Stacy and Teresa reentered the house, they found Ben and Adam seated together on the settee, side by side, postures stiffly erect, hands folded in their laps, and eyes fixed on the massive fireplace directly in front of them.

“Y’know, I could’ve SWORN I closed the front door when we went out,” Joe said pointedly, his lips curving upward to form a secretive Mona Lisa smile.

“Hey! What are ya looking at ME for?” Adam demanded when Ben turned to glare at him.

“Adam, really! Were you brought up in a barn or something?” Joe quipped.

Adam responded with a ferocious glare leveled in the general direction of his youngest brother, who, in his own humble opinion seemed to be finding too much enjoyment in the discomfiture of his elders.

“Come on,” Joe cajoled with a big, smug, cat-that-ate-the-cream smile. “I asked Stacy and Teresa to step outside so we wouldn’t bore you with our plans for next Friday. We have no secrets here, none at all.”

“None?!” Adam queried, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“None, honest!” Joe said earnestly, with that wide eyed much too innocent look on his face that ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent of the time warned that mischief of a significant nature was in the offing. “You didn’t have to go through all that trouble trying to listen through the door, OLDEST BROTHER.”

Adam turned and glared over at his father. “I wasn’t the only one,” he growled.

“ . . . if you really want to know what we were talking about, all you have to do is ASK,” Joe invited.

“Alright, Baby Brother,” Adam eagerly pounced on the invitation with both feet. “I’m asking. What ARE your plans for next Friday night?”

“Poetry, Oldest Brother, sheer poetry,” Joe replied.

 

“Oh dear,” Molly murmured, as her brother, Frankie brought the buggy and horse, both rented from the livery stable in town, to a halt in front of the Cartwrights’ house the following morning. “I hope we’re not too early . . . . ”

“If we are, Molly, I’d rather have to wake up Mister Cartwright than go back home and face Ma,” Frankie said soberly.

The front door opened.

“Hey, Molly . . . Frankie, y’ better git a move on!” It was Hoss, already up and dressed. “You’ve got just enough time to wash up ‘n git to the table in time for breakfast.”

“Oh good, you folks haven’t eaten yet,” Frankie said, leaping down from the buggy. “I’m starving.”

“Hoss, I hope Frankie and I aren’t putting you out,” Molly said doubtfully.

Hoss gently lifted Molly from the buggy and set her down lightly on her feet. “You’re not puttin’ us out one li’l bit,” he hastened to assure her. “But, ya gotta move. Y’ know how Hop Sing is about eatin’ while it’s hot.”

“Aren’t you coming in to breakfast with us, Hoss?” Molly asked, as she and her brother stopped at the pump outside to wash their hands and splash the cold water on their faces.

“I got up ‘n ate a couple o’ hours ago,” Hoss replied. “Now I’m fixin’ to head on into town an’ run a few errands. You two g’won inside. Stacy’ll be down shortly, if she ain’t down already. I’ll have one of the men see t’ your horse ‘n buggy.”

“Thanks, Hoss,” Frankie said gratefully.

“ ‘Morning, Molly,” Joe greeted his sister’s best friend with a warm smile, “you, too, Frankie.” He turned and cast a quick glance toward the stairs. “We gotta talk,” he said lowering his voice to a mere whisper, “privately, after breakfast. It’s about the music box.”

“The music box?” Frankie queried, normal volume.

“Sshhh!” Joe quickly shushed him. “I’ll fill you in later.”

“You mean to tell me you found it?” Molly asked, taking great care to keep her voice low.

Joe nodded. “We’ll talk later,” he promised.

“Hi, Molly . . . hi, Frankie!” Stacy greeted her friends, as she bounded down the stairs, two and three at a time.

“ ‘Bout time you hauled your lazy bones outta bed, Kid,” Joe chided her with mock severity.

“I’d have been up a lot earlier if I had gotten to sleep before you did,” Stacy retorted with an impish grin. She turned her attention to Molly and Frankie. “Around here, anyone unfortunate enough NOT to get to sleep before Grandpa here, is kept awake all night by his snoring.”

“I do NOT snore,” Joe protested.

“Oh yes, you do!”

“Do not!”

“Do SO!” Stacy retorted. “What’s more, you snore louder than the lowing of a whole herd of sick cattle.”

“You exaggerate, Kid.”

“Of course I do, Grandpa,” Stacy replied. “If I told people what you REALLY sound like, no one’d believe me.”

“I know I’m gonna hate myself for asking this, but . . . what DO I really sound like?”

“You actually snore louder than the lowing of TEN herds of sick cattle,” Stacy answered with a smug grin.

“Har de har har!” Joe seized one of the cushions from the settee and lobbed it at Stacy’s head.

Stacy ducked. The cushion sailed over her head toward the stairs.

A strangled deep baritone cry from the direction of the steps froze the blood in the veins of not only the younger Cartwright offspring, but of the O’Hanlans as well.

“Uh . . . oh . . . . ” Joe squeaked, his eyes round with horror.

“Joseph Francis Cartwright, is THIS yours?” It was Ben Cartwright, standing at the first landing, holding the cushion his youngest son had thrown at Stacy.

“N-no, Sir,” Joe replied. “I, uh . . . think it belongs on the settee, actually . . . . ”

Ben tossed the cushion back to Joe. “See that you return it,” he said with an indignant scowl.

“Breakfast ready!” Hop Sing announced. “Come eat while hot!” He turned to the O’Hanlans, and smiled. “Good morning, Miss Molly . . . Mister Frankie. Come, eat! Where Mister Adam, and Mrs. Teresa?”

“Adam and Teresa will be along in a few moments,” Ben replied. He turned to the O’Hanlans, and smiled. “Good morning, Molly . . . Frankie. We’d better move along to the table. If we don’t eat while it’s hot . . . . ”

“ . . . things get very ugly around here very quickly,” Stacy said, as she ushered Frankie and Molly toward the table. Ben and Joe followed close behind.

“ . . . and in Chinese, no less,” Joe added with a grin.

“How’s Adam doing this morning, Mister Cartwright?” Molly asked, remembering the incident with the thief the previous day.

“The swelling’s gone down and he’s not talking as nasal as he was last night,” Ben said, taking his place at the head of the table, “but he’s sporting a couple of real shiners this morning.”

“Hop Sing says poor Adam reminds him of a Chinese robber baron,” Stacy said, trying hard not to smile. This morning, she sat down in the chair to her father’s right. Molly took the chair between Stacy and her brother, who sat at the end of the table.

“Pa, where’s Hoss?” Joe asked, taking the chair directly across from his sister, Stacy. “Isn’t HE coming for breakfast?”

“He got up and ate earlier,” Ben replied.

Joe’s eyes went round with exaggerated, melodramatic horror. “Oh no!” he gasped. “I hope there’s food for the rest of us . . . . ”

“No worry, Little Joe,” Hop Sing hastened to reassure the youngest of the Cartwright sons, as he entered the dining area, carrying an enormous tray, piled high with flapjacks, smothered in fresh churned butter and maple syrup. “Plenty food in kitchen.” He placed the tray directly in front of Ben. “Eat. I come back with sausage, bacon, and eggs.”

“Hoss said something about going into town to finish setting up for the party tonight,” Ben said thoughtfully, while spearing a half dozen pancakes from the serving tray with his fork. He frowned. “That’s odd! I thought we’d FINISHED setting up for that party last night.”

Stacy and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. Was it possible that their ever open and above board big brother had a clandestine contrivance of his own afoot? “Nah,” they said in unison, shaking their heads.

“Stacy? Joseph? Did you say something?” Ben asked, looking from one to the other.

“Just thinking out loud, Pa,” Stacy said quickly.

“Me, too,” Joe said.

“Good morning, Everyone,” Teresa greeted the assembly at the dining room table with a big smile. She sat down in the empty chair beside Joe. “Good morning, Molly . . . Frankie. I’m glad you both could join us.”

“Good morning, Teresa,” Ben greeted his daughter-in-law with a smile. “Is Adam coming?”

“He WAS right behind me . . . . ”

“Here, Pa.” All eyes turned toward Adam, who stood stiffly behind the empty chair next to Teresa. Though the swelling in his nose had decreased markedly, his eyelids and cheeks were a livid blue-black-purple color.

Joe burst out laughing. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t PONDEROSA Robber Baron!”

“Grandpa, you’re cruel!” Stacy declared, laboring valiantly to stifle her own onset of the giggles.

“The Ponderosa Robber Baron?” Adam queried in an ice-cold tone. “WHO may I ask is the Ponderosa Robber Baron?”

“That raccoon Hop Sing finally trapped in the garbage last week,” Joe laughed uproariously. “He’s been a nuisance ever since he woke up from hibernation.”

“The Ponderosa. Robber Baron!” Adam muttered through clenched teeth. Without further ado, he marched resolutely over to the chair Joe occupied and seized his youngest brother by the collar and belt. With strength born of indignant outrage, Adam lifted Joe from his chair and marched toward the door.

“HEY!” Joe protested at the top of his voice. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

Teresa bit her lip to keep from giggling herself, and pointedly stared down at her hands clasped in her lap. Ben and Stacy exchanged glances, before rising abruptly from the table and following. Molly, too, rose and followed close at Ben and Stacy’s heels. The three of them stopped at the open front door and watched as Adam dragged Joe, literally kicking and screaming toward the horse trough, filled with water.

“WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?” Joe yelled. “CAN’T CHA TAKE A JOKE? COME ON, ADAM, PUT ME DOWN!”

“What was that, Little Joe?” Adam queried with a malicious grin.

“I SAID PUT ME DOWN!!”

“Happy to oblige!” Adam said, dropping Joe into the water trough with a tremendous splash.

Joe immediately surfaced coughing and sputtering. “Two mornings in a row! This is getting OLD, Adam . . . really OLD!”

“I’ve been saying for years that you’re all wet, Baby Brother.”

“Stacy, is breakfast ALWAYS like this?” Molly queried sotto voce, as they returned to the breakfast table.

“Not at all,” Stacy replied glibly. “We’re on our best behavior today because we have company.”

 

“Pruella . . . Grace . . . you call THIS a clean floor?” Myra Danvers demanded, taking no pains what so ever to mask her growing vexation. She, the other members of the Virginia City Christian Church Ladies’ Guild, and their daughters had spent the better part of the morning, cleaning out the church basement for the reception following the much-anticipated Wedding of the Century. Pruella, her own daughter, and Grace Hansen, the eldest of five daughters born to the Cartwrights’ neighbors, Clay and Florence Hansen, were down on their hands and knees scrubbing vigorously to remove nearly two decades of dirt and grime from the basement floor of the church.

“Mother, Miss Hansen and I have been working for HOURS!” Pruella whined. “My back hurts, my legs hurt, my arms and shoulders hurt . . . . ”

“The exercise is good for you, especially after that enormous breakfast you wolfed down this morning,” Myra returned scathingly. She stood in front of her daughter, still down on her hands and knees on the stone basement floor, glaring with a mixture of disdain and revulsion at his daughter’s plump figure.

Pruella cringed away from her mother’s intense, withering glare.

“Yes . . . . ” Myra said slowly, “the exercise would be VERY good for you. Grace!”

Grace Hansen sat back on her knees and looked up at Myra Danvers expectantly.

“Go help your mother with the window washing,” Myra snapped out the order.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Grace murmured meekly. She quickly scrambled to her feet and ran across the room, where her mother was in the midst of scrubbing the grimy basement windows.

“As for YOU,” Myra turned with cold, disdainful fury on her daughter, “I want this floor so clean you can eat off it. Do I make myself clear?”

Pruella rose to her feet. “Fine,” she snapped, “do it yourself!” She slammed her scrub brush into the bucket with all her angry might, splashing the soapy water all over the floor and her mother’s long skirt.

“Pruella!”

The girl glared at her mother, then turned heel and began to walk resolutely toward the steps leading up out of the basement.

“Pruella, you come back here this instant!” Myra ordered indignantly. “Do you hear me? Right now!”

Pruella, her mouth set in a thin angry line continued her march toward the basement steps as if her mother had not spoken.

“PRUELLA!”

The girl paused, then turned facing her mother and tormenter. “Nothing I ever do is right,” Pruella returned, her tone and vocal inflections not unlike those of her mother, at HER most scathing. “Nothing I do ever satisfies or pleases you. Fine! I won’t do anything for you ever again.”

“Pruella, I will not tolerate such insolence!”

Pruella turned again, intending to run up the basement steps and as far away from her mother as her legs could possibly carry her. Instead, she collided headlong into Barney Murphy, assistant and protégé to Mick O’Flynn, causing him the loose his tenuous hold on tools and spare parts.

“Excuse me!” Pruella said, glaring down at the young man as if he were an insect that had just crawled out from under a rock. With that, she contemptuously pushed past Barney and continued her way up stairs.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Barney murmured, gazing appreciatively at her retreating form.

“ . . . and what, may I ask, is YOUR business here?”

Barney turned and found himself looking up into the scowling, angry face of Myra Danvers.

“Good morning, Ma’am!” It was Mick O’Flynn, this morning attired in a pair of clean overalls, and a cream colored linen shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbows. “Mrs. Danvers, I presume?”

“Yes,” she replied, eyeing Mick O’Flynn and Barney Murphy suspiciously. “Who are YOU?”

“We’ve come to install the new woodstove,” Mick said smoothly, with an affable grin.

“The new woodstove?!” Myra echoed incredulously.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Mick nodded ascent.

“Well, being president of the Virginia City Church Ladies Guild, I know for fact that the church hasn’t ordered a new woodstove,” Myra said scathingly.

“You are quite right, Ma’am,” Mick said smoothly. “The church has NOT ordered a new woodstove. THIS woodstove is a donation from a wealthy parishioner.”

“A wealthy parishioner, eh?” Myra queried.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And who, may I ask, IS this wealthy parishioner?”

“He wishes to remain anonymous.”

The thought of an unknown wealthy parishioner making so great a donation to the church anonymously without her notice, clearly intrigued her. “This wealthy parishioner . . . does he live in Virginia City proper?”

“I can’t say he does, Mrs. Danvers, and I won’t say he DOES not.”

“I see. Does he own one of the ranches in the area?”

“I’m not at all at liberty to say one way or t’ other.”

A slow predatory smile spread across her lips. “Is it one of the larger ranches in the area?”

“You didn’t hear such a thing from me, Dear Lady.”

“Thank you so very much, Mister . . . .?”

“O’Flynn, Ma’am. Mister Mick O’Flynn, at your service.”

“You’ve been very informative, Mister O’Flynn,” Myra said. “Very informative indeed!” The ranch that he had just “described” in such glowing terms could only be the Ponderosa, and THAT could only mean the identity of the anonymous donor in question was none other than Ben Cartwright. She made a mental note to craft a glowing letter of thanks and appreciation at the earliest opportunity. “Mister O’Flynn?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“I hope THAT’S not the woodstove,” Myra said pointing to the collection of spare parts, Barney had just finished retrieving from the floor.

“No, Ma’am,” Mick shook his head. “I dropped off the stove last night actually.” He gestured grandly toward the basement fireplace. There on the brick hearth sat Matilda, his still.

Myra Danvers walked over toward the still, frowning. “THAT’S the woodstove?” she queried, with a bewildered frown. “It’s so small!”

“One of the new, compact models,” Mick replied.

“And what’s THAT?” she demanded, pointing to the wood and coal carefully arranged beneath the still.

“The very latest thing, Mrs. Danvers,” Mick replied without missing a beat. “Y’ burn the wood THERE, it boils water inside the stove, which, in turn sends heat through piping laid out over the entire church.”

Myra grimaced. “You m-mean . . . we’re going to have a . . . a maze of unsightly piping winding its way through our church?!”

“I promise y’, Ma’am, ye’ll not see one single, solitary pipe, unsightly or otherwise,” Mick promised solemnly. “They’ll be placed behind the ceilin’s, the walls, and under the floors. We’ll drill small, tiny, tiny holes, so tiny, y’ won’t be able to see ‘em, to let the heat out.”

“ . . . and this is the very latest?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am.”

Leave it to Ben Cartwright to purchase the latest in new technology and the best. “Mister O’Flynn, can you have that woodstove installed in time for The Wedding ?” Myra asked.

“I’ll have that baby installed by this afternoon.”

“Excellent!” Myra exclaimed with glee. Surely a prominent personage like Ben Cartwright would be attending the big Wedding and reception as an invited guest. After all, his oldest son was to be the best man. Yes, Ben would definitely be attending. Myra planned to see to it that the first thing the Cartwright patriarch saw was his anonymous gift, bright and shining, there for one and all to see.

 

Pruella Danvers, her face a veritable thunderstorm, stomped up the three wooden steps leading to the front door of the home she and her mother shared. She stomped across the porch and entered the house, slamming the door shut behind her.

“Mrs. Danvers?” It was Estella Hastings, their housekeeper. She flounced down the front stairs, dressed in a blue-gray traveling suit, carrying a carpetbag in each hand.

“No . . . . ” Pruella looked over at the tall thin woman, her face a mask of righteous indignation. “Mother’s still over at the church.”

“Well, Miss Pruella, you can tell her for me that I QUIT!” Estella declared with an emphatic nod of her head.

Pruella gazed over at the housekeeper, very soon to be FORMER housekeeper, her eyes round with shocked stupefaction.

“As of today, Mrs. Danvers owes me two months wages, of which I have yet to see so much as a penny,” Estella continued. She placed her bags on the floor, and opened her purse. “All I get is empty promises. I can’t live on empty promises.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and presented it to Pruella. “My letter of resignation, effective immediately, and the address where she can send the wages to which I am owed.”

Pruella took the envelope. It was sealed, and marked, “Mrs. M. Danvers.”

Estella angrily closed her purse, and bent down to pick up her bags. “Good bye, Miss Pruella,” she said, the tone of her voice suggesting more of a good riddance. “I have a stage to catch.” She rudely pushed her way past Pruella and flounced angrily out the front door.

“Oh great, here we go again!” Pruella sighed, as she carelessly tossed the envelope in hand onto the marble and cherry wood half circle table in the vestibule. When Mother returned home and found out that Miss Hastings had quit, she would be fit to be tied. Miss Hastings was the tenth in a long line of housekeepers to leave her mother’s employ in the space of the past year.

An insistent knock on the door drew Pruella from her less than happy musings. She turned and flung the door open, favoring the caller with a dark, angry glare. It was Harlan Hurley, the eldest of Jack and Athena Hurley’s twin boys. “What do YOU want?” Pruella demanded, taking no pains to mask her irritation.

Harlan stood, his posture ramrod straight, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a jewelry box in the other. “Flowers for the fair,” he said, wincing, “and pearls for a princess.” He presented the gifts with a flourish.

“Come in,” Pruella invited, accepting the gifts. She led him to the formal parlor, noting that he walked slightly bow legged. “Please, sit down . . . . ”

“I’d prefer to stand,” Harlan said very quickly.

“Suit yourself,” Pruella sighed indifferently. She left the parlor, heading for the kitchen. The flowers, making up the bouquet, came from that new shop on main street. That alone told her they were costly. The flowers were out-of-season, force grown in that small green house behind the shop. That fact doubled, sometimes even tripled the cost. She stepped into the kitchen, and placed the flowers on the counter running the length of the east wall beneath the line of windows. Pruella quickly located a vase, and filled it at the kitchen pump. She, then, carefully arranged the flowers in the vase, smiling down at them with a measure of awe and respect.

After seeing to the flowers, Pruella opened the jewelry box, and found a pearl necklace, made of luminous white pearls of near equal size and shape, lying inside against a backdrop of deep, black velvet. This necklace alone had to have cost a small fortune. Add to that the cost of having ordered it from New York, Boston, or perhaps Philadelphia back east . . . .

Pruella returned to the parlor and her caller a few moments later, carrying the vase of flowers. “Thank you so much for these lovely gifts,” she purred, taking note of the suite he wore. It was a three-piece black suit, custom tailored from the way it fit, and brand new. “What’d you do, Harlan? Rob a stage?”

“N-no . . . . ” Harlan vigorously shook his head.

“It seems you’ve come into a great deal of money recently,” she remarked, taking great care to keep her voice sounding casual.

“I, uuhh, got a job,” he stammered.

“Obviously one that pays well,” she said, her face illuminated with a smile, concealing a sudden flash of inspiration. “Harlan, seeing as how YOU’RE in your Sunday best, ‘n all . . . and with money to spend, how ‘bout you going to the livery and renting one o’ those fancy buggies for the day?”

Harlan paled, and swallowed. The last thing in the world he wanted to do today was spend a lot of time sitting.

“We can go out . . . somewhere . . . ANYwhere . . . just YOU ‘n ME . . . . ” As long as it was far away from this house when her mother came home to discover that Miss Hastings had quit this afternoon, and left bag and baggage.

The prospect of spending an entire afternoon alone with Pruella Danvers brought a smile to his lips. “OK,” he agreed, forcing all thoughts of the time he would be forced to spend sitting in a buggy from his mind.

“While you’re at the livery, I’ll run up ‘n change to MY Sunday best, too,” she promised. “I’ll even have cook fix a picnic lunch . . . . ”

“Why don’t I stop off at the International Hotel and ask Mrs. Braun to put together a box lunch?” he suggested quickly. The Danvers’ cook was known far and wide for her lack of culinary ability.

“That’s a splendid idea!” Pruella declared with delight. She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. “Hurry back, Harlan Dear. I’ll be impatiently waiting.”

 

“This is all part of the Ponderosa, too?”

“Sure is, Molly,” Stacy replied, with a proud smile, “as far as the eye can see.”

“ . . . and farther than THAT!” Joe added.

“Wow! I had no idea the Ponderosa was so large!” Molly exclaimed. She stood on the shore of Lake Tahoe, gazing out over the deep blue water toward the mountains rising in the distance. Joe Cartwright stood on her left gallantly holding the reins for her mount, a gentle bay mare named Bayou Belle, along with same for his pinto, Cochise. Stacy stood on her right, absently stroking Blaze Face’s neck.

“What’s on the other side of the lake?” Molly asked.

“California,” Stacy replied with a smile.

“Hey, Frankie, come on and join the rest of us,” Joe invited with a big grin and a wave of the hand.

Frankie O’Hanlan remained in the saddle of his borrowed horse, a gelding named Gentleman Jim, with a temperament more docile and gentle than the horse on which his sister Molly had ridden. He sat stiffly erect clutching the reins so hard, his knuckles had turned white.

Stacy turned and whispered in Blaze Face’s ear. He flicked both ears and nickered in response. Confident that her horse would remain where he was and not wander away, she turned and ran over toward Gentleman Jim and Frankie. She took Gentleman Jim’s bridle firmly in hand and gently stroked his muzzle. “I have him, Frankie,” she said.

“Th-thanks, Stacy,” Frankie said gratefully, as he pried his right hand loose from the reins first, then his left. With heart in mouth, he gracelessly swung his leg over and dismounted.

“Are you alright, Frankie?” Stacy asked, noting that his complexion was a few shades paler than normal.

“I-I don’t know why I ever l-let you and Joe talk m-me into this,” he murmured, falling in line behind Stacy, who had taken the reins of Gentleman Jim.

“Probably the fresh air, the breath taking scenery, the fact that the four of us need to talk privately . . . . ” Stacy replied.

“What are we gonna talk about?” Frankie asked, as he, Stacy, and Gentleman Jim reached the spot where Joe and Molly stood.

“Your music box,” Joe said.

“Oh yeah!” Molly exclaimed, turning her attention to Joe. “You said right before breakfast you had found out something about our music box.”

“I couldn’t say much of anything in front of Pa at the breakfast table,” Joe said, “but, I found out where it is.”

“You did?” Molly queried, looking over at him hopefully.

“Yes, I did,” Joe said grinning from ear to ear, “and what’s more, we’re gonna get it back.”

“W-we are?” Frankie murmured, all of a sudden feeling apprehensive. He had no liking at all for the wild gleam in Joe Cartwright’s hazel eyes.

“Yes, we are,” Joe said firmly.

“When?” asked Frankie with fast sinking heart.

“Tonight,” Joe replied.

“T-To . . . To . . . night?!” Frankie queried as the blood drained right out of his face.

“Tonight,” Joe reiterated, with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Where IS the music box?” Molly asked.

“At the Silver Dollar,” Joe replied. “Clarissa Starling has it.”

“WHAT?!” Molly cried in outrage.

“No! That can’t be true!” Frankie protested. “Clarissa wouldn’t!”

“Oh yes she would, Frankie,” Stacy said gravely. “Not only would, but COULD and DID!”

“No! I can’t believe that! I . . . I WON’T believe that!” Frankie shook his head vigorously. “Clarissa’s such a sweet, wonderful girl, she’d never--- ”

“Look, Frankie, I hate to be the guy to burst your bubble, but I’m afraid it IS true,” Joe said, not completely without sympathy for the younger man. He remembered all too well how it felt not only to be on the giving end of an unrequited mad, passionate crush, but to learn that the person on the receiving end was all too human.

“How can you be so sure Clarissa has it?” Frankie asked.

“Lotus O’Toole told me,” Joe replied. He told the O’Hanlans everything he had told his sister and sister-in-law the night before.

“Why that . . . that . . . no good . . . . ”

“Molly, please!” Joe admonished her with mock severity. “Language!”

“I didn’t say anything,” Molly protested.

“You were about to,” Joe said, grinning.

“You’re right!” Molly admitted, smiling back.

“Oh, Molly, you weren’t!” Frankie exclaimed, looking thoroughly scandalized. He wasn’t at all sure what horrified him the most: the thought of his baby sister, with her reputation for being so nice actually using words he had to date only heard his father and older sister use, or the fact that she had been about to direct those invectives at his beloved Clarissa.

“Oh yes, I was,” Molly declared stoutly, with balled fists stubbornly placed on hips. “Because that Clarissa is every last one of the words that went through my head.”

“It’s a mistake,” Frankie said, “it’s gotta be.”

“It’s a mistake alright,” Stacy said sarcastically, “and Clarissa’s the one who made it.”

“Joe, you got an idea as to how we’re going to get that music box back?” Molly asked.

“You bet I do, Molly,” Joe replied, “but, I’m going to need a lot of help.”

“Teresa and I are in,” Stacy added.

“Teresa’s in on this?” Molly queried. “Really?”

“Yep,” Joe confirmed, as he and Stacy both nodded their heads.

Adam’s wife suddenly rose a few notches on Molly’s private, unwritten list of awesome individuals. “Then you can definitely count on Frankie and me, too, Joe,” she declared.

Frankie blanched. He had no liking at all for adventures of any kind, and this promised to be a wild one, if the audacious gleam in Joe Cartwright’s eyes was any indication. “ . . . uhh, Molly, can’t we, uh, well . . . talk about this first?” he stammered.

“No,” Molly said sternly. “Frankie, I know you didn’t mean to, but you still lost that music box. It’s only fair that you help us get it back.”

“But, Molly, I--- ”

“Frankie O’Hanlan, you listen to me and you listen good!” Molly cried in outrage, as her quick temper got the better of her. “If you so much as try to weasel out of this, so help me, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll mop up the whole of Virginia City with you from one end to the other and back again.”

Frankie looked like he was on the verge of fainting. He turned and grasped the saddle horn in one hand and draped the other arm over the saddle, hanging on to both for dear life.

“ . . . and don’t you dare, for one moment think I can’t do it either,” Molly added, shaking a balled fist in his face for emphasis.

“Alright, alright, I’m in,” Frankie agreed, with much reluctance.

“Don’t worry, Frankie, it’ll be real easy,” Joe said smoothly. “We create a bit of a diversion, go in, get the music box, make our escape through the back door into the alley.”

“That’s it?” Frankie queried. “Just . . . in and out . . . that quick?”

“They’ll never even know we were there,” Joe declared with confidence.

“When do we strike?” Molly asked, her own blue eyes glistening with anticipation.

“Tonight, after the bachelor party for Matt Wilson gets underway,” Joe replied. “Now, I’ve, uuhhh . . . told Pa that Stacy, Teresa, and I have plans for tonight, but I not really given him any details. If the two of you can stay here until this evening . . . . ”

“Ma’s going to be so busy getting all the last minute wedding details together, she won’t miss Frankie and me at all,” Molly said. “Pa told us this morning that, deep down, she’s probably be relieved to have us out of her hair.”

“Good,” Joe said. “We’ll tell Pa that were all going to spend the evening together. He’s uhh, SOMEHOW gotten the idea that we’re attending a poetry reading at the library tonight . . . . ”

“A poetry reading?” A bewildered frown knotted Frankie’s brow. “I thought we were going to get the music box back.”

Molly rolled her eyes, exhaling a curt sigh of impatience and exasperation. “We ARE, Frankie.”

“But, Joe just got through saying that we’re going to a poetry reading at the library tonight,” Frankie protested.

“No, Frankie,” Joe explained things slowly. Very slowly. “My pa THINKS were going to a poetry reading at the library tonight. A slight misunderstanding, but it would be better all the way around if he just goes right on thinking that we’re going to a poetry reading at the library.”

“Y-you’re not asking me t-to . . . to lie . . . are you?” Frankie’s normally pasty complexion lost what little color it had in the natural course of things.

“Of course not, Frankie,” Joe said.

“That’s good!” Frankie heaved a long sigh of relief. “I’m no good at lying! No good at all!”

“He’s right about that, I afraid,” Molly said apprehensively.

“In spades, Grandpa,” Stacy added.

“OK, tell you what, Frankie,” Joe said. “If any awkward questions arise, you just let Stacy and me handle them.”

“Y-you and Stacy are gonna lie?” Frankie was horrified at the prospect.

“For the record, the only time Stacy and I EVER lie is when we take naps or when we go to bed at night,” Joe in tones of exaggerated righteous indignation.

“That’s right!” Stacy agreed with an emphatic nod of her head. “ . . . and besides, lying is such a harsh word . . . . ” She grimaced.

“We prefer to think of it more in terms of taking creative liberties with the truth,” Joe added with a sly grin.

“Hey, Grandpa, four horses and riders approaching from a slight northeasterly direction,” Stacy noted with a frown.

“I recognize your father, Teresa, and Hop Sing,” Molly noted, “but I can’t make out who the fourth is.”

“I can make out a huge picnic basket fastened to the back of Hop Sing’s horse,” Joe said.

“Good, I’m starved!” Frankie said, licking his lips.

“But who IS that masked man?” Molly asked.

“It looks like Adam,” Stacy observed.

“If it’s Adam, then ix-nay on the cracks about him wearing a mask,” Joe warned. “He almost drowned me in the trough out front early this morning when I called him a raccoon.”

 

Colleen O’Hanlan, clutching the cloth shopping bag with last minute purchases, mostly toiletries for her impending wedding night, in one hand and her handbag in the other, stood for a time, unmoving, her eyes fixed on the Silver Dollar Saloon across the street. Finally, she swallowed, took a deep breath, then marched resolutely across the street, her face set with grim, rock hard determination.

“Good afternoon, Miss O’Hanlan,” Sam, the bartender greeted her with mild surprise. “Can I, uuhh . . . can I getcha something?”

“Yes,” Colleen replied. “A bottle of whiskey and a glass.” She whipped open her handbag, fished out the necessary money and slapped it down on the bar in front of Sam. She could feel every eye in the place fixed on her, boring holes in her back, but she had already made up her mind not to give a tinker’s damn, as her maternal grandmother was wont to say from time to time.

“I don’t usually see YOU in here, Miss O’Hanlan,” Sam remarked, as he set a bottle of whiskey and clean glass on the bar in front of her. “Wedding day jitters?”

“Yes, you MIGHT say that,” Colleen allowed, pouring herself a generous serving. She raised her glass. “Cheers, Sam!” Colleen drained the entire glass in a single swallow, then poured herself another.

“Sam, isn’t that the bride-to-be?” Lotus O’Toole asked, while pouring two mugs of draft beer for a couple of customers seated at one of the tables.

Sam nodded. “Wedding day jitters,” he said, lowering his voice.

Lotus set the two filled beer mugs on a tray, then turned to grab a whiskey bottle and glass. “Wedding day jitters, eh?” she remarked archly. “Hmm! If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was having a lot of second thoughts.” She picked up the tray and stepped from behind the bar, narrowly missing a head on collision with Clarissa Starling.

“Oh my gosh, Lotus, I’m so sorry!” Clarissa apologized at once.

“S’ ok, Clarissa,” Lotus replied, flashing her a reassuring smile. “No harm done.” She paused for a moment, noting that Clarissa’s face looked a bit paler than normal, and that she seemed unusually preoccupied. “You alright, Clarissa?” she asked gently.

Clarissa nodded. “Fine, just kinda lost in thought’s all . . . . ”

On impulse, Lotus reached over and gave Clarissa’s hand a gentle, affectionate squeeze, then moved on to serve three elderly gentlemen, occupying on of the tables near the back of the room.

Clarissa Starling, keeping herself well within the shadows, watched as Colleen chug-a-lugged her second glass of whiskey, and followed it up immediately with a third.

“Clarissa?” It was Sally Tyler.

No answer. Clarissa stood as if rooted to the spot, glaring over at Colleen O’Hanlan, who had just poured her fourth glass of whiskey. If looks could have killed, they would all be attending the Funeral of the Century tomorrow afternoon.

“Clarissa . . . . ” Sally reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

Clarissa started violently.

“Sorry I startled you,” Sally quickly apologized. She waited for the flustered younger woman to recollect her wits. “You ok, Honey?”

“Fine, S-Sally . . . just . . . fine!” Clarissa stammered. “Say! What’s up with that woman anyway?”

“Sam said it’s wedding day jitters,” Sally said. She watched in almost raft fascination as Colleen swallowed her fourth glass of whiskey, then shook her head. “Wow! If brides usually get that jittery, I’m sure glad I stayed single.”

“Wedding jitters my ass,” Clarissa growled, remembering Lotus O’Toole’s words to Sam.

“What did you say, Clarissa?” Sally asked.

“Nothing,” Clarissa replied curtly. “Excuse me!” She walked the entire length of the bar toward the door, where Colleen O’Hanlan stood, contemplating the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. Drawing along side Colleen, Clarissa reached out and tapped her shoulder forcefully.

Colleen turned. The abrupt motion of her body caused her to loose balance. She made a wild grab for the bar, and missing the mark, ended up sprawled ungracefully on the floor at Clarissa’s feet.

“What the hell is your problem, Lady?” Clarissa demanded, growing angrier by the minute.

Colleen rose unsteadily to her feet. “My probl’m is none o’ yer damn business,” she replied belligerently, while clinging to the edge of the bar for dear life.

“You really think you’re hot donkey puck, don’tcha?” Clarissa rounded on Colleen, giving full vent to the fury that had been growing inside since the latter and Matt announced their engagement last month for the umpteenth time. “Well you ain’t! You’re nothin’ but a pile o’ cold cattle crud!”

“Maybe I oughtta be askin’ YOU wha’ da hell YOUR problem is,” Colleen said, leveling a murderous glare at Clarissa.

“YOU, you no good drunken bitch!” Clarissa’s angry voice rose several notches in volume. “YOU’RE my problem!”

Colleen stared over at her ranting antagonist, her mouth open in shock.

“Either marry Matt Wilson or turn ‘im loose,” Clarissa continued, her voice rising with each word. “It ain’t fair you stringin’ ‘im on year after year, while ya try an’ make up your mind.”

“I tol’ja b’fore, this is none o’ yer business,” Colleen pointedly turned her back.

“Hey, don’t you dare . . . . ” Clarissa reached out with both hands, fully intending to turn Colleen back around to face her. The instant she made contact, Colleen turned and lashed out with a hard, powerful right cross. Clarissa stumbled backwards and fell.

“If it’s a fight y’ want, then by golly it’s a fight y’ll get,” Colleen declared, before leaping on her opponent with a primal banshee’s wail of pure rage.

Outside, Hoss and Apollo froze mid-stride a few feet past the Silver Dollar door. “That sounds like Colleen,” the latter murmured with a puzzled frown.

“BITCH!”

“GOBSHITE”

“Hoss! That WAS Colleen!” Apollo gasped, horrified.

A split second later, Clarissa Starling literally flew out through the swinging doors of the Silver Dollar Saloon, and landed half on the sidewalk, half in the dirt road. Colleen staggered out of the door. She stumbled across the side walk, and fell into the one of the support poles propping up the overhanging roof, sheltering the walk way. Colleen spotted Clarissa in an instant. With a cry of pure rage, the former leapt upon the latter. In a flurry of name-calling and obscenities, shouted at the very top of their voices, the pair rolled in the street, each wrestling for supremacy over the other. A crowd began to gather.

Hoss immediately ran over to the embattled women, and grabbing each by the forearm, hauled both unceremoniously to their feet. “Apollo, I could use your help!” he said tersely, while valiantly laboring to keep Colleen and Clarissa apart.

Apollo elbowed his way past a trio of elderly men, all known to be town gossips, and made a beeline for Hoss, and the two women. He grabbed hold of Colleen and pulled her, kicking and screaming away from Hoss and Clarissa. Though the women were unable to physically reach each other, verbal assaults flew fast and furious. The sound of someone firing a pistol froze everyone in his or her tracks.

“Alright, Folks, move along,” Roy Coffee ordered the people gathered to watch the brawl. “Fight’s over, time to git on about yer business.”

“Stinkin’ gobshite!”

“Jezebel!”

As the crowd slowly dispersed, Roy turned and glared at both Colleen and Clarissa, still in the restraining grasps of Apollo and Hoss respectively.

“Sheriff Coffee, I demand that you arrest that woman,” Clarissa cried, pointing her finger at Colleen. “She threw the first punch.”

“Which I wouldna done, if ya’d minded yur own business, y’ stupid guttersnipe!” Colleen argued.

“Sot!” Clarissa spat. “You’re so filthy, falling down drunk . . . . ”

“Bitch!”

“Ladies, THAT will be enough!” Roy said sternly, the minute he could get a word in edgewise. “Hoss, Apollo, let ‘em go.”

“You . . . think that’s, uuhhh, WISE, Sheriff Coffee?” Apollo asked.

“Let ‘em go,” Roy said again.

Hoss and Apollo looked at each other, shrugged, then did as Roy had asked.

“Call me a gobshite ‘n a guttersnipe, willya?” Clarissa growled.

“You c’n add bleached blonde shrew t’ da list, too!” Colleen returned without missing a beat.

“Why you . . . . ” Clarissa started moving toward Colleen, her hands balled into a pair of tight fists.

“That’s it! I’m placin’ BOTH o’ ya under arrest!” Sheriff Coffee quickly interposed himself between the two women. “Hoss, Apollo, do ya both swear to uphold ‘n defend the laws o’ Virginia City ‘n Story County t’ the best o’ your ability?”

“Yeah . . . . ” Hoss said.

“I . . . I guess so,” Apollo said looking uncertain.

“Consider yourselves both sworn in as deputies,” Roy said tersely. “Hoss, you grab Clarissa, and you, Apollo, grab hold o’ Colleen. I’m tossin’ ‘em BOTH in the pokey ‘til they calm down.”

 

“Hoss, please! You’ve got to get me out of here!” Clarissa begged for the thousandth time. “I’m late for work now!”

“Keep it down over there, y’ whining horse’s arse ya!” Colleen growled from the adjoining cell. The effects of the whiskey, hastily consumed, had dissipated, leaving her feeling sick and irritable.

“I will NOT keep it down!” Clarissa cried, angrily stamping her foot. “SOME of us have to work for a living, y’ know. Not ALL of us have a wealthy pa t’ keep us ‘til we can marry a decent man!”

“If I had a violin, I’d play it!” Colleen snapped.

“Colleen . . . Clarissa, none o’ this is gonna help gittin’ the two o’ ya outta here,” Hoss said sternly.

“It’s not fair!” Clarissa declared, glaring murderously over at Colleen. “SHE hit me first.”

“Well if you’d have minded your OWN business--- ”

“Clarissa, an’ YOU, too Colleen. This ain’t gettin’ us anywhere!” Hoss said firmly. He glared at both of them for a long moment. “What set the two of ya off, anyways?”

“SHE hit me!” Clarissa said.

“Well if you’d left me alone . . . . ”

“I just couldn’t stand it!” Clarissa groaned. “Hoss, she came into the Silver Dollar earlier to get herself falling down stinkin’ drunk. You wanna know why?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell us,” Apollo said in a wry tone.

“Durn tootin’!” Clarissa said, glaring over at Apollo. “It was because SHE’S having second thoughts again about gettin’ hitched to . . . to . . . to the man I love with all my heart!” Her last words ended on a stifled sob.

Colleen looked over at her askance. “YOU love Matt?”

“Yes, I do!” Clarissa sobbed angrily. “You gonna throw THAT in my face, too?”

“No,” Colleen said. “Because I love Apollo here with all MY heart, and would give just about anything for HIM to be the groom at my wedding tomorrow.”

“Now hold on a minute!” Hoss said, looking from Colleen to Clarissa, then back once again to Colleen. A smile slowly spread across the lower portion of his face. “Now lemme git this straight! Clarissa, you’re in love with Matt Wilson . . . . ”

“Yes,” she replied in a small, sad voice.

“ . . . . and I’m pretty sure Matt’s still in love with you.”

“What?” Colleen looked over at Hoss in complete and utter astonishment.

“H-Hoss . . . . you sure ‘bout that?” Clarissa asked, hardly daring to hope.

“I heard ‘bout that fight between Matt ‘n Apollo,” Hoss said quietly. “If ‘n he didn’t care ‘bout you at all, Clarissa, he wouldn’a been tryin’ so hard to explain things to ya.”

“I . . . I was so upset, I . . . well, I wouldn’t have figured that out in a million years,” Clarissa said slowly, very thoughtfully. Then, all of a sudden, she burst into tears.

Hoss, his face mirroring the despair and misery heard clearly in Clarissa’s weeping, reached out and gently touched her shoulder. “Dadburn it,” he said in a gloomy tone, his own voice breaking, “Apollo ‘n I’ve spent all day rackin’ our brains tryin’ t’ come up with a way so’s Colleen ‘n Matt wouldn’t hafta get married tomorrow . . . . ”

“ . . . and we haven’t been able to think of anything,” Apollo sadly shook his head.

Hoss suddenly remembered the bet his sister, Stacy had placed with Mick O’Flynn. “If only there was a way t’ substitute Apollo for Matt t’morrow . . . . ”

“Hoss, my dear old friend, you’re a genius!” Colleen cried. “An absolute genius!”

Hoss stared over at her, with a bewildered frown on his face.

“There IS a way!” Colleen’s face lit up with a dazzling smile.

“What do you have in mind, Colleen?” Apollo asked.

“Gather ‘round, Folks,” Colleen invited. The four moved into as close to a huddle as the bars between adjoining cells would permit. Smiling, Colleen O’Hanlan revealed her plan.

“Colleen . . . . ” Hoss looked over at her, wondering if that large amount of whiskey she had consumed in so short a time hadn’t somehow permanently left her mentally unhinged. “Y-you can’t DO that!”

“Colleen, he’s right! You CAN’T do that!” Apollo’s normally robust Mediterranean complexion was several shades paler.

“ . . . and why not?” Colleen demanded. “It would hardly be the first time that sort of thing’s happened, and it sure as shootin’ won’t be the last.”

“But, your reputation--- ”

“You have any BETTER ideas, Hoss?” Colleen asked.

Hoss reluctantly shook his head.

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Clarissa said slowly. “You’d have Apollo, and I’d at least have a shot at snagging Matt, but I think I’D better be the one.”

“Why you?” Colleen asked.

“Apollo just arrived a couple o’ days ago,” Clarissa hastened to point out. “That’s hardly enough time for . . . for . . . uuhhh, well . . . you know . . . and then to find out . . . . ” She sighed. “Besides, I’D be more believable.”

“I . . . hate to say this, but you may be right,” Colleen said remorsefully.

“S’ok, it’s true,” Clarissa said.

“Clarissa?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I’m sorry I made you mad enough to hit me.”

The two women reached out and shook hands.

“It’s all set, then,” Clarissa said. “At the right time, I’ll do what I gotta. When I do, you’re gonna have to make it look good, Colleen.”

“I will, don’t you worry about that,” Colleen promised with relish. “You know, I can’t wait to see the look on the face o’ that stuffed shirt I almost ended up havin’ as a mother-in-law.”

“Me neither!” Clarissa declared with a feral grin.

“Well, you know that they say about paybacks . . . . ” Colleen said. She, then turned to Hoss. “I’m curious. Wherever did you get the idea of changing Apollo for Matt?”

“Well, truth t’ tell it was really m’ sister’s idea,” Hoss admitted with a smile.

“Well you give her a big hug and a kiss from the four of us,” Colleen said.

“Amen to that,” Clarissa agreed.

“Me, too,” Apollo said.

“I sure will,” Hoss promised. “Now that things are patched up, I’d best fetch the sheriff to let the pair o’ you outta there.”

 

Ben sighed contentedly, as he eased himself down into the warm water, then settled himself back to relax and soak. The waning light of day streaming in through the bathroom window, casting its brilliance upon the surface of his bath water gently stirred the memory of bright sunlight dancing across the placid surface of Lake Tahoe this afternoon, under a bright, blue cloudless sky.  
 

“Hey, Grandpa, race ya!”   
   
Ben heard his daughter’s voice, saw her eyes, the same brilliant blue as the sky overhead, sparkling with excitement.  
   
“You’re on, Little Sister!” His youngest son eagerly accepted her challenge, his normally gray-green eyes mirroring the blue of lake and sky.  
   
“On your mark . . . . ”  
   
“Get set . . . . ”  
   
“GO!” Stacy and Joe shouted in unison as two of them surged forward on Blaze Face and Cochise respectively.  
   
“YAH!” Adam shouted, urging his own mount forward, a surprise contender eagerly joining the race.  
   
Teresa cupped her hands to her mouth and raucously cheered Adam on. Molly O’Hanlan, much to his astonishment, established herself as Joe’s boisterous rooting section, while Hop Sing cheered Stacy on. Frankie, Molly’s older brother, watched the race through eyes round with sheer terror, gripping the reins of his own mount so tight, his knuckles had literally turned white.  
   
Horse hooves pounded the earth, and splashed through lake water, as Blaze Face, Cochise, and Sport II, caught and claimed the excitement of their riders. Joe’s high pitched, highly infectious rapid fire laughter mixed with Stacy’s surprised, “LOOK OUT, GRANDPA, IT’S ADAM! HE’S GAINING ON US!”  
 

Hoss studied his father with a bemused look on his face, as he stood before the mirror whipping his shaving soap into a frothy lather. “Hey, Pa, whatcha thinkin’ about?”  
   
“That race this afternoon . . . . ”  
   
“If it’s all the same to YOU, Pa, I’d just as soon forget all about that race,” Adam said with a grimace. He looked over at Hoss, his dark eyes meeting his brother’s pale blue ones. “It wasn’t a race, Hoss,” he explained, with a wry grin, “it was an embarrassment! Stacy and Joe had me beat by a mile.”  
   
“Aw, it wasn’t THAT bad, Adam,” Ben said, smiling. “You may have finished third out of three, but you sure gave the pair of ‘em a good run for their money.”  
   
“All the same, I’m woefully out of practice,” Adam confessed as he reached for his own shaving mug, soap, and brush.  
   
“Well, I know how t’ gitcha back IN practice real quick, Adam,” Hoss said as he dabbled the foamy shaving soap lather across the lower portion of his face with his brush.  
   
“How’s that, Big Brother?”  
   
“We’ll be moving the herds out t’ summer pasture startin’ Monday mornin’ next week,” Hoss said. “An extra warm body’d be more ‘n welcome.”  
   
“We’ll see,” Adam said evasively.  
   
A smile spread slowly across Ben’s lips as he slid down deeper into the tub. Hop Sing, with Teresa’s able assistance, had outdone himself preparing the picnic lunch. The memory of that fried chicken lingered blissfully on his lips and tongue, even now. Best of all, there had been none of the clandestine plotting and intrigue that seemed to be going on the night before. Just plain, old-fashioned good food and good fun shared with even better company.  
   
Ben closed his eyes again, and turned this thoughts to the evening ahead. He could almost see that line of long-legged French can-can gals now, wearing very short skirts, dancing energetically against the dark backdrop of his eye lids.  
   
“Hey, Older Brother, y’ better go easy on that aftershave cologne,” Hoss teased, as he deftly scraped the razor blade across his face one last time. “A married man shouldn’t be showin’ up at a party with all them pretty dancing gals smellin’ too pretty himself.”  
   
Adam responded with a melancholy sigh.  
   
Hoss cast a sidelong glance over at his older brother. “You alright, Adam?” he asked. “F’r someone who was all gung ho ‘n excited ‘bout this shindig, you’ve pert near turned into a party pooper.”  
   
“Adam?” Ben glanced up at his eldest son with concern. “You sure you’re alright? That WAS a very bad hit you took on the nose yesterday, then racing Joe and Stacy this afternoon . . . . ”  
   
“I’m fine, Pa,” Adam said testily. “The nose and eyes LOOK worse than they actually are.” He shook a few more drops of his father’s Old Bay Rum aftershave cologne into his left palm, then gingerly patted his neck and chin. “I guess I’m a little concerned about Teresa and the two babies of the family being turned loose on the town tonight.”  
   
“Adam, for the life of me, I can’t understand WHY you’re so worried,” Ben said, his lips curving upward to form an amused smile.  
   
“You sure that knock y’ took on the nose didn’t addle your noggin?” Hoss asked. “If ‘n I didn’t know better, I’d almost swear you was mistakin’ Joe ‘n Stacy for Benjy ‘n Dio.”  
   
“The comparison is apt,” Adam admitted.

Ben laughed. “Now, Son, I know Joe and Stacy together can be a little high spirited sometimes . . . . ”  
   
“THAT is the understatement of the century,” Adam said in a wry tone.  
   
“But, TERESA will be with them,” Ben pointed out.  
   
“I KNOW that, Pa.”  
   
“Well, I think you and I both know she’s very much a down to earth, no nonsense woman,” Ben continued. “If I’ve said this once, I’ve said it a hundred times, the presence of her wisdom and maturity will quell any of the wilder notions that may come into Joe’s or Stacy’s heads.”  
   
“What about some of the wilder notions that may come into the O’Hanlans’ heads?” Adam demanded.  
   
Ben and Hoss looked over at one another, then simultaneously burst into hearty, gut wrenching laughter.  
   
“Would you two mind telling ME what’s so funny?”  
   
“Adam, I don’t think the O’Hanlans could come up with a wild idea to save their lives,” Hoss explained. “That Frankie . . . . ” he shook his head, chuckling, “I’ve NEVER seen anyone more inept, clumsy, ‘n absent-minded in my whole life. That boy couldn’t git into trouble if ‘n he TRIED.”  
   
“ . . . and Molly?”  
   
“Adam, Molly’s the most gentle, soft spoken, well-mannered, young lady it’s ever been my pleasure to meet,” Ben said with a smile. “I think some of that’s rubbed off on your sister . . . . ” he flinched against his oldest son’s intense, dubious glare, “ . . . well, a little . . . I think . . . . ”  
   
Adam screwed the lid back onto the bottle of after shave cologne and replaced it in the shelf underneath the mirror. “Pa, what, exactly, are they planning to do in Virginia City this evening?” he tried a different track.   
   
“Well, I think Teresa said something about doing a little shopping . . . . ”  
   
“Pa, the only kind of shopping Teresa really enjoys is shopping for books,” Adam said archly.   
   
“So?”  
   
“So, you and I BOTH know there is a dearth of bookstores in Virginia City.”  
   
“Adam, maybe Teresa needs, uh . . . you know . . . whatever kind o’ things women, uuhh need!?” Hoss suggested. Two bright spots of red appeared on his cheeks.  
   
“I hardly think Teresa would take our baby brother and a young man she just met yesterday with her to shop for whatever kind of things women have need of,” Adam argued.  
   
“No, I don’t suppose she would,” Hoss murmured as two bright spots on his cheeks, deepened to scarlet.  
   
“ . . . and besides, Big Brother, my wife has enough of . . . THAT stuff to last her the next ten years!”  
   
Hoss’ entire face flushed crimson. “Adam, h-how do you--- ?”  
   
“You’ll just have to trust me on this one,” Adam said quickly.  
   
“It’s still possible Teresa has need of SOMETHING,” Ben suggested reasonably, “and last night, Joe talked about attending a poetry reading, or some such. In fact, it was HIS idea.”  
   
“Joe . . . OUR Joe . . . suggested they attend a poetry reading?!!” Adam shot Ben a look that clearly asked what rock did he just crawl out from under. “You ARE aware we’re talking about the same guy who considers bawdy limericks and sea chanties great poetry?”

“Aww come on, Adam, how much trouble can our li’l brother . . . ‘n sister, too, for that matter . . . possibly get into with the O’Hanlans, and Teresa along?” Hoss asked.  
   
“Lots!” Adam snapped.  
   
   
   
An hour later, Adam descended the stairs, nattily attired in a pair of black slacks, a clean white shirt, freshly pressed and starched courtesy of Hop Sing. He wore his black tie loosely around his neck, and carried a black jacket over his arm. His own family and their friends, the O’Hanlans, were gathered together over next to the fireplace. Pa sat in the middle of the settee, clad in a pair of light gray pants, white shirt, and black tie already neatly tied. Stacy and Teresa flanked him on either side. Adam noted with surprise that the youngest of his siblings were properly attired, as appropriate for dinner and a poetry reading. Joe’s beige slacks were clean and pressed, as was his white shirt. He wore a black tie, neatly tied, and had his green jacket in hand, casually slung over his shoulder. Stacy was also very conservatively attired in one of the full split skirts, she normally wore to school, hued in dark blue, with matching jacket, and white blouse.   
   
Suddenly, all the concerns that had plagued him, that he’d tried to voice to his father and brother a short time before, rose to the forefront of his thoughts. Adam began to feel foolish for having entertained them.   
   
“Hey, Oldest Brother, you’re lookin’ real spiffy tonight,” Joe complimented him with an affable grin.  
   
Teresa studied her husband with a jaundiced eye. “Adam Cartwright, you’re looking a little TOO spiffy to suit ME,” she declared rising. “Here, let me give you a hand with that tie.”  
   
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d rather have PA do the honors,” Adam teased. “With that look on your face, you’re more apt to STRANGLE me with my own tie.”  
   
“We need to get movin’ anyway,” Joe said quickly.

“I want the five of you to enjoy yourselves tonight,” Ben said, rising along with Stacy and Teresa.  
   
“Thanks, Pa, you guys, too,” Stacy replied, as she slipped her arms around his waist and gave him a quick, affectionate squeeze.  
   
“You can count on it, Li’l Sister,” Hoss eagerly promised.  
   
Ben planted a quick kiss on Stacy’s forehead. “Young Woman, I want you to be on your very best behavior this evening,” he exhorted her, while casting a meaningful, sidelong glance at Adam.  
   
“OK, so I went a little overboard worrying,” Adam admitted reluctantly. “My apologies to offended parties, one and all.”  
   
“ . . . and just who ARE the offended parties to whom you’re referring?” Teresa asked.  
   
“Just about everyone present, with the exception of Pa, Hoss, and Hop Sing,” Adam sighed.  
   
“Apology accepted, Oldest Brother,” Joe said with a grin.  
   
“Ditto what Grandpa said,” Stacy agreed.  
   
“Frankie and I accept your apology, too, Adam,” Molly said.  
   
“Well and good for the lot of you! As for ME, however, I’D prefer to reserve judgment on that,” Teresa declared with a saucy grin.  
   
“If it would please Your Honor, the counsel for the defense proposes a private meeting in The Judge’s chambers to, uummm . . . discuss the matter?!” Adam suggested, returning her saucy grin with a roguish one of his own. He slipped his arms loosely around her waist. “Counsel for the Defense is free to meet with the Judge . . . he can very truthfully say, first thing tomorrow morning?”  
   
“The Council for the Defense may consider himself on the docket for first thing tomorrow morning,” Teresa said, as she slipped her own arms around his waist and gave him a gentle, very affectionate squeeze. “In the meantime, Adam, you enjoy yourself tonight, too.” She pulled him closer and kissed him soundly on the lips. “But not too much!”  
   
Ben dutifully saw his youngest children, his daughter-in-law, and the O’Hanlans to the front door.   
   
“Pa?”  
   
“What is it, Hoss?” Ben asked, as he closed the front door behind the five who had just left.   
   
“I plumb forgot . . . when I was in town earlier, Mrs. Danvers gave me this,” Hoss held up a pale lavender envelope, faintly scented with heather and vanilla. “She asked me t’ pass it on t’ you.”  
   
Ben reluctantly accepted the sealed envelope from Hoss. On the front was his name, spelled out in the thin, spidery handwriting he immediately recognized as the hand of Mrs. Myra Danvers. He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, perfectly folded in thirds, and written on paper perfectly matching the envelope. Ben opened the letter and read.  
   
“So what does the good Widow Danvers have to say, Pa?” Adam asked, noting the puzzled frown on his father’s face.  
   
Ben looked up, shaking his head in utter bewilderment. “The note says, ‘My Dear Benjamin . . . .’ ” He exhaled a short, exasperated sigh. “I am NOT her DEAR Benjamin!” he stated emphatically.  
   
Adam deftly slipped the note out of his father’s hand. “Hmmm! ‘My Dear Benjamin, I want to thank you so very much for your generous donation of a wood stove to our fair church. Please rest assured that your anonymity will be carefully preserved. Your kind generosity is most appreciated. Affectionately . . . . ’ ” He looked up at his father with a bemused grin. “Affectionately, Pa? You haven’t been toying with this woman’s affections . . . have you?”  
   
“Not hardly,” Ben growled. “I go out of my way to AVOID her!”  
   
“You remember that visit we had from Cousin Clarissa?” Hoss asked, scowling.  
   
“Thankfully, I wasn’t around,” Adam said.  
   
“Well as bad as we toldja Cousin Clarissa was, this Widow Danvers is about a hundred times WORSE!” Hoss continued, “ . . . and she gives ME a doggoned case o’ the willies on top of that!”  
   
“Where in the ever lovin’ world did she get the idea that I donated a wood stove to the church?” Ben demanded, addressing no one in particular.  
   
“You mean you DIDN’T donate a wood stove to the church?” Adam queried with a puzzled frown.  
   
“No, I most assuredly did NOT!” Ben declared vehemently.  
   
Adam shrugged. “OBVIOUSLY, there’s been a misunderstanding somewhere.”  
   
“OBVIOUSLY!” Ben growled through clenched teeth. “But you mark my words, I’m gonna straighten out that little misunderstanding at the wedding reception tomorrow, first thing . . . AND I’m going to straighten out a few OTHER things, as well . . . once and for all!”  
   
“Come on, Pa,” Hoss said. “It’s gettin’ on time f’r US t’ leave. Why don’t we just plain forget about that woman, f’r tonight anyway, and think about havin’ a real good time.”  
   
“Hoss, that’s the best idea I’ve heard this evening,” Ben agreed. “Let’s go.”  
   
   
   
“Can I get you folks some dessert and coffee?”

The Cartwrights, Joe, Stacy, and Teresa, and the two younger O’Hanlan offspring had just finished a big supper of meatloaf, mashed potatoes with beef gravy, mixed vegetables, and light fluffy buttermilk biscuits, hot and fresh from the oven at the International Hotel restaurant.  
   
Joe looked up at their waitress, attired this evening in a green dress that complimented her mane of red curls and her big, green luminous eyes. He smiled warmly at her, as his eyes flitted briefly to the wall clock above their heads, then back to the waitress’ face. “No thank you, Patty,” he said, noting the time was seven forty-two. The bachelor party should be well underway by the time they reached the Silver Dollar. “We need to be pushin’ on. Please tell the chef it was a real fine meal.”  
   
“Yes, it was,” Teresa said, nodding.  
   
“Y’ SURE I can’t interest you in some dessert?” Patty said with a coy smile. “We got cherry pie on special tonight, made by Mrs. Braun herself.”  
   
“That sounds wonderful,” Frankie said. “I’ll have . . . . ”  
   
“ . . . to pass, I’m afraid,” Joe said quickly, as Molly favored her brother with a dark, murderous glare. “As I said, we’ve got to push on. We’ll take the check please.”  
   
Patty nodded. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.  
   
“Frankie,” Molly hissed after Patty had left them to get the check, “what did you think you were doing?”  
   
“Stalling for time, I guess,” Frankie said contritely, then sighed.  
   
Joe, seeing the worried look on the younger man’s face, smiled. “Frankie, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on Frankie’s shoulder. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, then resumed, lowering his voice. “The plan is flawless, absolutely flawless. We’re gonna go in, get the music box, and go out. Just like that, easy as pie.”

“You sure, Joe?” Frankie asked anxiously.  
   
“I’m positive,” Joe said with a confident smile. “It’s a simple, but effective strategy. In, grab music box, out. It’s that simple.”  
   
“What if something goes wrong?”  
   
“If we all work together, and do what we’re supposed to do . . . WHAT can possibly go wrong?” Joe asked.  
   
   
   
Ten minutes later, the five would be raiders stood together in a close-knit circle at the corner where the side alley, leading to the rear of the Silver Dollar Saloon, met with C Street. Tonight, less now than twenty-four hours until the much-anticipated Colleen O’Hanlan-Matthew Wilson Wedding, the entire population of Virginia City and surrounding environs was in a festive mood. All six of Virginia City’s saloons did brisk business.  
   
“Ok . . . I want the four of ya to wait here,” Joe quietly instructed his cohorts. “Before we do anything, I need to find out whether or not Sally Tyler convinced Clarissa Starling to give up the music box. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  
   
“Dear God,” Frankie prayed softly and very earnestly, squeezing his eyes shut, “please make it so Sally Tyler convinced Clarissa to return our music box, please-please-please-please-please-puh-LEESE! Do this for me and I’ll give up cigarettes for as long as I live, and even longer than that.”  
   
“Frankie, I didn’t know you smoked cigarettes,” Stacy whispered with an amused grin on her face.  
   
“He DOESN’T,” Molly said in a wry tone.  
   
Joe returned a few moments later, his face set with grim determination. “Lotus told me it was no dice,” he said. “We go ahead as planned.” He paused, and turned to his sister. “Stacy, your assignment is to create a diversion.”  
   
“What KIND of diversion did you have in mind, Grandpa?” she asked.  
   
“Doesn’t matter, Kid, any kind of diversion, as long as it . . . diverts attention,” Joe replied.  
   
“Ok, but I need to give some thought to it,” Stacy said moving slightly apart from the others.  
   
“Frankie, YOUR job is to keep an eye on Clarissa. Make sure she doesn’t under any circumstances go up to her room until Teresa and I come back down and give you the high sign,” Joe continued.  
   
Frankie paled, and swallowed hard. “Gosh, Joe, maybe YOU should be the one to keep an eye on Clarissa,” he said. “YOU’RE the one who has a way with the ladies.”  
   
“Frankie, you’ll be FINE,” Joe promised with an encouraging smile. “Just fine!”  
   
“But, what’ll I say to her?” Frankie asked, horror stricken.  
   
“Hey! Do I look like a script writer?” Joe demanded. “Look, if all goes well, you won’t have to say a thing to her. We’re gonna go in, grab the music box, and be right out faster ‘n striking rattler, like I keep tellin’ ya.”  
   
“I hope so, Joe, I really gosh-a-roonies hope so.”  
   
“Molly,” Joe said, turning to Frankie’s sister and Stacy’s best friend, “you’ll be in the saloon standing next to the back door. When you see Teresa and me coming with the music box, you’ll signal to Stacy and Frankie.”  
   
Molly nodded.  
   
Joe turned to his sister-in-law. “Teresa, you and I will go up to Clarissa’s room,” he said with gleeful relish. “You’ll stand guard in the hall, while I go into the lady’s room and fetch the music box.”  
   
Teresa favored her young brother-in-law with the same knowing glare she turned on her own two children when she knew they were up to mischievous no good. “Slight change in plans, Joe,” she said with mock severity. “YOU will stand guard in the hall whilst I search the lady’s room.”  
   
Joe knew better than to waste time and energy arguing the matter by the determined look on Teresa’s face. The disappointment on his face was a veritable comic relief.  
   
“Ok, any questions?” Teresa aptly took the reins of leadership, while Joe nursed his momentary upset.  
   
The others shook their heads.  
   
“Stacy, are you ready?”  
   
“Yes,” she replied, ignoring the sudden, sharp stab of conscience. She swallowed, reminded herself silently and firmly that what she was about to do was for a very good cause, then pulled herself up to full height. With her face set with stubborn resolve, she started walking toward the swinging saloon doors.  
   
“Hold it, Kid,” Joe reasserted his role as head honcho. “What’re you planning to do?”  
   
“Just keep your eyes peeled, Grandpa,” Stacy said, as she sauntered past him into the saloon.  
   
   
   
Meanwhile, in the back room, the men who had arrived for Matthew Wilson’s bachelor party were clustered in a semi-circle around the make shift bar. The groom-to-be stood in the center, as the guest of honor, with his best man beside him on his right. Apollo Nikolas stood on the other side of Adam, grinning from ear to ear. Most of the other men in the room, knowing of the triangle involving the sailor, the prospective bride, and the groom-to-be, looked back and forth, from Matt to Apollo, their eyes shining with anticipation and excitement.  
   
“Matthew, tomorrow, you and the lovely Colleen O’Hanlan will take the plunge into the deep, and sometimes HOT waters of holy matrimony,” Adam said, blissfully ignorant of the explosive potential existing between the two men flanking him on either side.  
   
“Y’ got that right, Adam, m’ boy,” Francis O’Hanlan loudly voiced his agreement.  
   
“After two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, your life will irrevocably change,” Adam continued. “No more women, no more drinking and carousing ‘til the wee hours of the morning, no more women, no more hunting and fishing trips off in to the woods alone or with others, no more women, no more poker games with your buddies . . . make that your FORMER buddies, and . . . did I already mention no more women?”   
   
“NO!” the men chorused in loud, resounding unison.  
   
“Ok, all you married men out there, let’s say it together,” Adam prompted.  
   
“NO MORE WOMEN!!!”

“I didn’t heeeear you,” Adam said with a sly grin.

“NO MORE WOMEN!” they shouted at the very top of their lungs.  
   
Adam raised his glass, filled to the brim with the best whiskey money could buy in Virginia City. “A toast,” he said. “To Matt, I wish you health, prosperity, good fortune, good luck, and an endless supply of good excuses for the rare occasions you DO come home late on Saturday night.”  
   
“To Matt,” the others chorused in near unison, amid the ripple of amused laughter.   
   
“Hey, Clem, that big guy standin’ on the other side o’ Adam Cartwright . . . is HE the sailor guy whut used t’ be in love with Colleen O’Hanlan, an’ is STILL in love with Colleen O’Hanlan?”  
   
Clem Foster, the deputy, turned to the grizzled elderly man standing beside him. “Yep, that’s him,” he replied. “That’s Apollo Nikolas.”  
   
“Man! I dunno ‘bout you, but the way he just stands there, smilin’ like he don’t have a care in t’ world, jus’ out ‘n out gives me the willies.” The old man shuddered.   
   
“As father of the bride, I’d like to make a toast, but m’ glass is empty,” Francis O’Hanlan Senior said, holding his glass up for all to see.  
   
Hoss picked up an open whiskey bottle from the bar and refilled his own glass. “Here, y’ are, Mister O’Hanlan,” he said, passing the bottle.

“Thanks, Hoss, you’re a good lad,” Francis said, taking the bottle. He quickly refilled his own glass, then held the bottle up for all to see. “Anyone else?”  
   
A half dozen hands shot up. Francis lobbed the bottle in the general direction of Sheriff Roy Coffee.   
   
“Ben, when are we gonna see them dancing girls?” the sheriff asked, as he refilled his glass.

 

Outside, in the public room, Stacy walked boldly up to the bar and took her place beside one of the saloon girls, a woman by the name of Sally Tyler. Aged in her late twenties, Sally barely stood five feet two inches wearing high heels. Though given to plumpness in general, the plumpness in specific kept her very popular with the male patrons of the Silver Dollar Saloon. She had hazel eyes that tonight appeared to match the emerald green of her dress, and a cloud of platinum blonde hair worn in an elaborate coif.  
   
“Stacy Cartwright,” Sam, owner and bartender of the Silver Dollar, greeted her with a smile, “I don’t usually see YOU in here without your pa or one of your brothers.”   
   
“Oh, my brother’s around . . . somewhere,” Stacy said, casting her eyes around the crowded room. That was the pure, one hundred percent, honest truth, even though she neglected to add that two were in the back room attending the bachelor party for Matthew Wilson, and the third was just outside the door. “In the meantime, how about a mug of nice cold beer?”  
   
“As long as it’s ROOT beer,” Sam said pointedly, “or sarsaparilla, if you prefer.”  
   
“Ok, please make it root beer, Sam,” Stacy sighed. She, then, turned and gawked at Sally, her blue eyes focused on the latter’s yellow tresses.  
   
“Hey!” Sally flinched under Stacy’s intense scrutiny. “What’s the matter with you? What are you starin’ at?”

“I’m looking for the black roots,” Stacy said a tad too innocently.  
   
“Black roots?!” Sally favored Stacy with a murderous glare. “I’ll have you know, Miss Stacy Louise Cartwright--- ”  
   
“That’s Stacy ROSE Cartwright, Sally,” Stacy corrected, wincing against that bothersome conscience of hers again. “The name change was official a couple o’ days ago.”  
   
“Whatever you say, Miss Stacy ROSE Cartwright,” Sally continued not bothering to conceal her growing annoyance and vexation. “I’ll have you and anyone else know for that matter that this platinum blonde hair is pure one hundred percent natural.”  
   
“Sorry I offended you, Sally, honest,” Stacy took a step backward and raised her hands defensively. “I could have sworn . . . .” She turned and gave a long, meaningful look in the general direction of Laurie Lee Bonner, standing on the other side of the room watching a high stakes poker game in progress.   
   
Laurie Lee was twenty years old, with a body flat and round in all the right places. Tonight, she wore a stunning bright red gown, that complimented her ruddy complexion, shining black hair, and dark brown eyes. It was a well-known fact among the residents of Virginia City and surrounding ranches, that she and Sally were bitter rivals. Laurie Lee stood directly behind the one player who seemed to be having a non-stop winning streak, deftly massaging his shoulders.  
   
Sally’s eyes followed the line of Stacy’s gaze. “You mean to tell me she’s the one who--- ”  
   
“You didn’t hear it from me,” Stacy said solemnly. That, too, was the honest to goodness, one hundred percent, pure truth.  
   
“Hmpf! She’s got HER nerve, telling everyone I have black roots,” Sally muttered, glaring daggers at the unsuspecting Laurie Lee, “ ‘specially since I know for fact that she gets that fancy shade of black hair from an India ink bottle.”  
   
“Does peroxide come in a bottle, too?” Stacy asked.

“Peroxide?!”  
   
“As in Peroxide Queen of Virginia City?”  
   
“Did she say that?” Sally shrieked in outrage.  
   
“Like I said before, you didn’t hear it from me,” Stacy replied.  
   
   
   
“I absolutely refuse to call Matt Wilson my son-in-law,” Francis O’Hanlan belligerently informed the other men at the bachelor party. “Not now, not never.” He paused, and broke into a wide grin. “That’s ‘cause I’ll always think of ‘im as a SON.”  
   
The other men applauded. Apollo and Matt turned toward each other, their eyes meeting, holding. Roy Coffee shot both of them a stern warning glare.  
   
“ . . . an’ now to Matt an’ m’ daughter, Colleen, though SHE’S not here,” Francis continued. “May your years together be long, an’ full of happiness. May your children . . . my GRAND-children . . . be many an’ full t’ brimmin’ with good health. Good health to the groom an’ may the bride live forever.”  
   
The men toasted and most downed their whiskey in a single gulp.  
   
“My turn to toast,” Blake Wilson yelled out. “I’m the father of the groom, so it’s my turn to toast.”  
   
Adam and Matt deftly seized the latter’s father by the elbows and lifted him onto one of the chairs. “Attention, Everyone,” Adam called for order. “Blake Wilson would like to propose a toast.”  
   
“Pa, that’s his THIRD TIME,” Hoss complained, grimacing. “When are we gonna have them can-can gals?”  
   
“Patience, Son,” Ben said, amused by his middle son’s eagerness. “All good things come to he who waits.”

“Hey, Adam,” Apollo said tapping the eldest Cartwright son on the shoulder, “I think the whiskey’s gettin’ low.”  
   
“Not to worry, Apollo, there’s more under the table,” Adam said.  
   
Apollo shook his head. “Look again,” he said lifting the tablecloth. There remained not a single case of whiskey.  
   
Adam turned to his younger, bigger brother, standing next to their father. “Hoss, we’re running very low on the whiskey,” he said, taking great care to keep his voice down. “Wouldja mind going out and asking Sam for more? He told Pa he’d keep some extra aside.”  
   
“Alright, Adam,” Hoss agreed, “but I’d better dadburn sight NOT miss them can-can gals.”  
   
“You won’t, Big Brother, you have my solemn word,” Adam promised, punctuating his words with a resounding hiccup.  
   
Hoss nodded and walked, none too steadily, toward the closed door leading out into the public bar room.   
   
   
   
“I’ll teach that no good bitch to go around tellin’ folks I get my hair color out of a bottle,” Sally Tyler vowed. With an enraged growl, she downed the remained of her beer in a single gulp, then stomped across the room, making a beeline toward Laurie Lee.   
   
Stacy discreetly followed, weaving her way among the crowd at the bar with root beer mug in hand. She was so intent on following Sally, she neglected to watch where she was going. Suddenly she bumped hard against one of the patrons.  
   
“Excuse me, Young Fella.” It was Hoss.  
   
For one brief heart-stopping moment, Stacy was afraid she was going to faint. “My . . . . ” her voice squeaked. She swallowed, pushed her hat low over her eyes, and averted her face. “My fault, Mister, sorry,” she mumbled, lowering her normal speaking voice an octave. She quickly melted into the crowd.  
   
Hoss took a step toward the bar, then froze. “I could o’ sworn--- ” he murmured, his brow knotting in a puzzled frown. He moved on, shaking his head. “No, can’t be.”   
   
Sally, meanwhile, marched right up to Laurie Lee and tapped her hard on the shoulder. “Alright, Big Mouth,” she spat, “where do you get off telling folks I have black roots?”  
   
Laurie Lee looked up, meeting Sally’s eyes with an indignant glare. “What’re you talking about?”  
   
“I’m talking about you telling every Tom, Dick, and Harry comin’ in here that I get my blonde hair out of a peroxide bottle.”  
   
“You’re drunk.”  
   
“And you’re a no good stinkin’ liar!”  
   
“I don’t take that from NOBODY,” Laurie Lee yelled. “NOBODY, D’YA HEAR? ‘SPECIALLY NOT OUTTA MISS PEROXIDE QUEEN O’ VIRGINIA CITY.”  
   
“THAT DOES IT!” Sally balled her first and struck Laurie Lee square in the jaw with a good strong right cross. Laurie Lee reeled backward, falling into the arms of Clay Hansen, one of the Cartwrights’ neighbors.  
   
“Well, well, well!” Clay declared with an appreciative smile. “Ain’t YOU a nice surprise!”  
   
Laurie Lee freed herself from his embrace with a vicious elbow jab to the rancher’s ample girth. Clay doubled over, instinctively wrapping his arms protectively about his abdomen. The movement, combined with several mugs of beer previously consumed, threw him off balance. He stumbled and fell against a young man wearing a green leather jacket and a white hat pulled down low over his face.  
   
“Uuhhh! ‘Scuse me, Young Fella,” Clay murmured an apology.  
   
The young man placed a strong, steadying arm around Clay Hansen’s shoulders. “ ‘S ok, Sir,” he said in an almost bland monotone. “You alright? Y’ almost took a real nasty fall there . . . . ”  
   
“I’m fine, Young Fella, thanks t’ you. How’s about I buy ya a drink as a way o’ sayin’ thanks?”  
   
“I firmly believe in lettin’ the doin’ o’ good deeds be its own reward,” the young man said.  
   
“Can’t argue with yer beliefs, Son,” he said smiling. “Thanks again.”  
   
“You’re welcome.” With that the green-jacketed young man disappeared into the crowd.  
   
Laurie Lee, meanwhile, once having freed herself from Clay Hansen’s embrace, charged Sally with a banshee like scream. Sally tried to side step the charge. In so doing she tripped over a spittoon and landed in an ungainly heap on the floor. Laurie Lee, screaming triumphantly, leapt on her fallen antagonist. In a flurry of obscenities and hair pulling, the pair began to roll across the floor. A crowd began to gather. Stacy made her way over toward the poker game, still in progress.  
   
“That’s it,” Joe Cartwright turned and whispered to his companions waiting outside the Silver Dollar Saloon. “Let’s go.”  
   
   
   
“I wanna make a toast,” Blake Wilson said.  
   
“That’ll be his FIFTH time,” Roy groaned.  
   
“Sorry, Blake,” Ben decided to take matters into his own hands. “But, seein’ as how I’M father o’ the best man, it’s MY turn.” He raised his glass and roared, “TO THE DANCING GIRLS! TWELVE, COUNT ‘EM, TWELVE!”  
   
A six-piece band marched into the room, single file, playing a boisterous French can-can. They lined themselves up along the back wall. A dozen female dancers entered, right behind the musicians, kicking up their heels. Blake Wilson, Francis O’Hanlan, Roy Coffee, and a few of the other men joined the line, interspersing themselves between the dancers. The rest clapped, stamped, cheered, and whistled appreciatively.  
   
“HEY, BEN, C’MON!” Roy, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, waved his old friend over.  
   
“MAYBE LATER, ROY!” Ben waved back, grinning appreciatively from ear to ear.  
   
“Awww . . . come on, Ben! This is the last night o’ Matt Wilson’s life as a free man!” It was Hiram Peabody, the attendant at the stagecoach office. He had a glass of whiskey in hand and a big smile in his face.  
   
“Why don’t YOU join the chorus line over there?” Ben asked, feeling exceedingly mellow.  
   
“Sissy’d kill me,” Hiram # said blandly. “What’s YOUR excuse?”  
   
“My two older boys are here, and . . . well, someone’s got to be the grown-up and, you know . . . set the good example?!”  
   
A sly smile spread across Hiram Peabody’s lips. “Ben, doesn’t settin’ a good example also include showin’ ‘em how it’s done once in awhile?”  
   
“Well, by golly, you’re right!” Ben agreed enthusiastically. “YOU are absolutely right! Hold this!” He handed his beer mug, half empty of it’s contents over the short, plump man standing next to him, then set off across the room, beating a straight path toward the dancers.  
   
“Hey, Adam,” Hoss said frowning, “sounds like someone screamin’ out in the public room.”  
   
“F’r t’ life o’ me, Hoss, I can’t unnerschtan’ how you can hear screamin’ out there with all the screamin’ goin’ on in here,” Adam observed, well on his way to ‘Bombed Bay,’ a turn of a phrase, coined by his college roommate during his sophomore and junior years at Harvard University, referring to the inebriated state.  
   
   
   
Out in the public room, Frankie O’Hanlan spotted Clarissa Starling standing at the edge of the crowd, gathering to watch Sally and Laurie Lee. She stood next to Dick Faraday, the new ranch hand out at the Miller ranch. Dick was tall, very well muscled, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and washboard flat abdomen. Almost everyone of the female persuasion within Virginia City and the surrounding environs drooled over the man. Dick had one arm draped possessively around Clarissa’s shoulders. Clarissa, from time to time, smiled up at Dick, though her smile never came close to reaching her eyes. Frankie walked over, planted himself right next to her, then turned to gawk. Molly discreetly made her way to the rear exit and took her post, while Teresa and Joe, walking single file, headed resolutely in the direction of the stairs.  
   
The poker game continued, completely oblivious to the saloon girls’ bar room brawl. Stacy took a new position behind the man winning big at the poker game, and man seated on his right. The latter was young, aged in his late teens, impeccably attired in a fashionable three-piece suit. He was tall and thin with curly, light brown hair. Stacy watched as the next hand was dealt.  
   
Clarissa, in the meantime, shuddered and flinched under Frankie’s relentless and intense scrutiny. “Frankie, go AWAY!” she hissed.  
   
Joe and Teresa quickly bounded up the stairs while Sam the bartender frantically ran to break up the escalating fight. In addition to Sally and Laurie Lee, it had grown to include a half a dozen ranch hands from the Ponderosa, the Miller ranch, and the Five Card Draw, Clay Hansen’s ranch.  
   
Sally, in her battle against Laurie Lee, managed to squeeze her left leg, bent as far as she possibly could, between herself and her opponent. With a powerful shove, she sent her hapless antagonist flying through the air. Laurie Lee crashed into Polly McPherson, the local madam at the Virginia City Social Club, the largest bordello on D Street. Aged in her mid to late fifties, Polly was a shrewd, hard businesswoman. Tonight, she was attired fashionably, by her own definition, in a silk green and gold striped dress that molded to her ample form as if it had been painted on. She and Laurie Lee crashed to the floor in an ungainly heap.  
   
“GET OFF ME, YOU STUPID TWIT!” Polly bellowed.  
   
Laurie Lee scrambled to her feet and ran, with Sally and Polly in hot pursuit. The crowd parted allowing the three enraged women to run through their midst.  
   
“Hey, Dick,” it was Mick O’Flynn. “Care to place a bet?”  
   
“Ten bucks on Polly,” Dick Faraday declared, grinning.  
   
“Gotcha,” Mick made the notation in his little black book. “How ‘bout YOU, Young Fella?” he said addressing Frankie.  
   
Frankie said nothing. He simply stood, as if glued to the spot, his eyes six inches from Clarissa’s face.  
   
“Frankie, I told you to GO . . . AWAY!” Clarissa hissed.  
   
“Hey, Sweetheart, that guy botherin’ ya?” Dick queried.  
   
“He certainly is,” Clarissa replied.  
   
Dick Faraday drew himself up to full height, turned and glared ferociously down at Frankie. “Get lost, Pipsqueak,” he ordered, “or else.”  
   
“O-o-or else . . . w-what?” Frankie stammered.  
   
Dick raised a massive, tightly balled fist and held it up three inches from Frankie’s face. “Or else I send ya flyin’ butt over head from here all the way to Carson City,” he threatened.  
   
Frankie swallowed. He desperately wanted to run, but Joe had told him to keep an eye on Clarissa. “Itsa free country, Dick,” he murmured, his heart pounding.  
   
“MISTER Faraday to you, Pipsqueak.”  
   
“Ok, Mister Faraday, itsa free country.”  
   
Dick seized Frankie by the lapels and lifted him off the floor with ridiculous ease. “Carson City here you come,” he said menacingly.  
   
Frankie squeezed his eyes shut. “Nuh-nuh-now I lay me down to sleep . . . . ”  
   
The crowd divided, half following after Sally Tyler and Polly McPherson in hot pursuit of the hapless Laurie Lee. The other half formed a half circle around Dick Faraday and Frankie O’Hanlan. Very few noticed the young men wearing the green leather jacket and white hat, weaving his way through the growing crowd, smiling with great satisfaction.  
   
Laurie Lee, meanwhile, in her mad dash to escape her nemeses, came to an abrupt halt when she plowed into a waiter, carrying a tray full assorted pies, sliced onto generous pieces, to one of the tables. The tray smashed into the young man, covering him with its contents.  
   
“Sorry,” Laurie Lee gulped.  
   
“Not half as much as yer gonna be,” the young man replied, seizing a handful of the pie filling dripping from his head, shoulders, and chest. He packed it as one would a snowball and hurled it at Laurie Lee’s head. She ducked. The sticky wad smacked Nick Lee, one of the new men working at the Ponderosa, upside the head.  
   
“Danny Boy,” Nick turned toward the waiter with an angry scowl. “You’re gonna get it now.”  
   
The waiter turned and fled, with Nick in hot pursuit. Nick had barely gone a dozen steps, when he slipped on some of the pie goo that had dripped from the waiter onto the floor. With an astonished scream he slammed hard into a table occupied by “Slim” Teach, a known troublemaker in town, and Mary Lu, his girl friend. Their mugs toppled over, splashing beer on them and on the floor.  
   
“My dress!” Mary Lu wailed in dismay. “It’s ruined!”  
   
“Slim” was out of his chair and seizing Nick by the lapels like a shot. “Ok, Pretty Boy, you’re gonna pay for ruinin’ Mary Lu’s dress.”  
   
“Hey, ‘Slim,’ it ain’t MY fault,” Nick protested. “Danny Boy over there . . . . ”  
   
“I don’t see no Danny Boy here in the middle o’ my table knockin’ our beers all over us, ruinin’ Mary Lu’s pretty dress,” “Slim” said in a low, quiet voice, carrying in it all the power and fury of a storm about to break. “I see you . . . HEY!” He turned and stared at the young man, with curly brown hair sticking out from under a white hat, wearing a green leather jacket standing behind him.  
   
“Sorry, didn’t mean t’ bump ya,” the young man murmured a hasty apology.  
   
“Yer just lucky I just happen to have another score here t’ settle,” “Slim” said with a venomous glare.  
   
“Sorry . . . . ” The young man turned and just seemed to melt into the crowd.  
   
   
   
At the bachelor party, Ben and his oldest son, Adam, stood together at the back of the group, watching the can-can dancers. They and most of the guests, including Hoss and Apollo, had formed a line that threaded and wove itself around and through the back room.   
   
“Pa?”  
   
“Yes, Adam?” Ben responded breathlessly, while frantically mopping his drenched brow, face, and neck with a handkerchief.   
   
“Miss Paris, Sshhh . . . Sss-tacy’s ma . . . she wuz . . . quite a woman, wazzan’ she? Beautiful woman . . . fulla fire . . . like . . . like . . . uuhhh, what’s ‘er name?!”

“You referin’ t’ Don Miguel’s oldest gal #?”

“Yeah! That’s the one!”  
   
Ben grabbed the fresh, cold, nearly full mug of beer from the table next to him and downed two-thirds of it in a single gulp. “Yeah . . . Miz Paris sure WAS a woman o’ fire in her own right.” Her memory brought a fond smile to his lips. “Fair warnin’, Adam! Stacy’s got that same quick, fiery temper.”

“That doesn’t sur-prise me,” Adam replied. “I also remem’er Marie bein’ a firebrand ‘ershelf . . . I mean her . . . self.” He took a swig from the bottle in his hand.   
   
“Yep!” Ben nodded, his smile broadening. “Yep! Marie sure was . . . part o’ her charm o’ course . . . same with Paris.”  
   
“Gee, Pa, I never knew you . . . you were susshhh a . . . a glutton for punishment,” Adam said, shaking his head.  
   
“This from a man who’s been married to his own spitfire for the past ten years?” Ben observed with a sly grin.   
   
“Touche, Pa,” Adam said, laughing out loud.  
   
“Gimme that,” Ben snatched the whiskey bottle from Adam’s hand. “Didn’t I teach y’ boys how t’ share?”  
   
“Pa . . . Adam . . . . ” Hoss said anxiously, “sounds like a real knock down drag out fight’s goin’ on out in the bar room.”  
   
“Big Brudder, yer drunk,” Adam declared with a broad, if lopsided grin.  
   
“Hey, Ben! Adam!” Roy Coffee stumbled from the line of dancers into the outstretched arms of Hoss.

“You alright, Roy?” Hoss inquired as he helped the sheriff to steady himself.  
   
“Fine ‘n dandy,” Roy replied with a lopsided smile. “When we gonna have the cake with them gals in it?”  
   
“I almos’ plumb fergot about that, Pa!” Hoss cried out in dismay. “Them poor li’l gals must be suffocatin’ inside that cake.”  
   
“Better do it now,” Ben said. “Come on, Adam . . . . ” His eldest stared back at him with glassy eyes, and a crooked smile. “Never mind, Son,” he sighed. “Hoss, I need your help.”  
   
Ben staggered through a back door that led to one of the storerooms. By previous arrangement, the cake had been left there. Hoss gently took his father by the elbow to add a steadying influence to an otherwise topsy-turvy situation. Upon reaching the storage pantry, they found the cake sitting in the middle of the room on a cart. It was a tall, eight layer cake, ornately decorated with white icing roses, rose buds, ribbons, and pearls. The top was graced with a bride and groom figurine.  
   
“Pa, that cake don’t look big enough to hold three gals,” Hoss said with a bewildered frown.  
   
“T’ cake’s prob’ly hollow,” Ben explained. “The gals are actually hiding in the cart.”  
   
Hoss had serious doubts, but opted not to press the argument. “We’d better git it on in there, Pa,” he said. He wheeled the cart ahead of him, with Ben following unsteadily behind.  
   
   
   
Meanwhile, the brawl in the public room had escalated to include most of the Silver Dollar patrons, except for the men involved in the high stakes poker game. They played on, oblivious to the noise and chaos around them.  
   
“Ok, I call,” the dealer said in a dead monotone.

“Three ladies.” The man seated on the dealer’s right placed his hand on the table. He leaned back in his chair, smiling, as a spittoon sailed through the air in front of him, passing less than six inches from his nose. His smile never wavered.   
   
The man, seated to the right of the player with three queens, threw his cards down on the table in disgust, without showing them.  
   
“Full house,” the next man declared, placing his spread on the table en masse.  
   
“I have four of a kind,” the young fashion plate announced with a broad grin. “Four nines! I believe four of a kind beats a full house?”  
   
“It sure does, Kid,” the player seated to his right replied in a smooth oily tone.   
   
The young fashion plate, grinning broadly from ear-to-ear, shot right out of his chair, and reached out to claim the prize piled in the middle of the table.  
   
The man seated on his right, who had just confirmed his winning hand, reached out and put a restraining hand on the younger man’s forearm. “Not so fast, Kid.”  
   
“B-but you just said--- ”  
   
“Four of a kind DOES beat a full house,” the man reiterated. “But YOU still lose! I have four ACES.”  
   
“You’re cheating!” Stacy cried in outrage. “I saw you slip that ace of spades out from under your shirt sleeve.”  
   
The winner shot out of his seat. He literally towered over Stacy. “You smart mouth kid,” he growled, “I got a good mind to turn you over my knee and--- ”  
   
“Hold this,” Stacy said, throwing her mug, still half full of root beer into the winner’s outstretched hands.   
   
   
   
Hoss, meanwhile, rolled the cake in front of the closed door separating the back room from the public room. He loudly called for order. “Folks, we got a nice li’l desert here with just a pinch more o’ sugar ‘n spice ‘n everything nice.”  
   
“ ‘Bout time!” Clem yelled.  
   
“Do I have any volunteers t’ help cut this here cake?” Hoss asked. He immediately regretted his call for volunteers when ninety percent of the guests surged forward en masse, a few running, the vast majority staggering. Hoss stood rooted to the spot for a brief instant, his blue eyes round with sheer terror. Seconds before the surging mass of humanity would have converged on him, Hoss scrambled as fast as his legs could carry him, bellowing with all the power and force of a rutting bull moose.   
   
   
   
Just on the other side of the door, Stacy balled her fist and punched the cheating card shark in the stomach as hard as she could. The man reeled backward, both hands still clutching Stacy’s half empty mug of root beer, crashing through the door between the public room and the private room where Matt Wilson’s bachelor party was taking place. The men, who seconds before were bolting toward the cake and the dancing girls presumably inside, turned and ran helter-skelter in all directions, bumping and colliding into one another.   
   
The card shark and door fell on top of the cake. The cart held for a moment, then with a sickening groan buckled and collapsed. The door, with the card shark on top slammed into the floor with a hard thud, sending pieces of cart flying in all directions and crushing the cake to a pulp.   
   
“Them poor li’l gals!” Hoss murmured with a grimace.  
   
“There ain’t no gals in that cake,” Francis O’Hanlan declared, thoroughly outraged.  
   
“There ain’t?” Wave upon wave of relief washed over Hoss like the ever-rolling ocean surf. He slowly raised his eyes heavenward, and breathed a quick, heartfelt prayer of thanks.

“Francis is right!” one of the other guests bellowed. “There AIN’T ‘ny gals in that cake! There CAN’T be!!!”  
   
“This is an outrage!” Phineas Burke #, tailor and once time candidate the office of Virginia City’s mayor, declared. “Where’s t’ best man?”

 

“That’s quite a ruckus going on down there,” Teresa remarked as she and Joe stealthily made their way down the dark empty hallway toward Clarissa Starling’s room.  
   
“I told Stacy to create a diversion not raise holy . . . uuhh, heck,” Joe said soberly.

“Sounds more like UNHOLY heck,” Teresa replied. “Come on, something tells me we’d better grab that music box and get ourselves out of here pronto, if not sooner.”  
   
They found Clarissa’s room at the far end of the hall, as Lotus had said. Teresa placed her hand on the doorknob and turned. The door was locked.  
   
“Oh no!” Joe paled. “I didn’t figure on this! NOW what’ll we do?”  
   
Teresa deftly removed a hairpin from her coiled chignon. “Watch my back,” she whispered. “I’ll handle this.” Using the pin, she picked the lock in short order, and opened the door.  
   
Joe stared at his sister-in-law and her handiwork trembling with awe and new respect. “Wow!” he whispered. “You’re good!”  
   
   
   
Stacy, meanwhile, ducked behind the crowd that had gathered at the poker table and made a point of putting as much distance as she possibly could between herself and the gaping hole where the door, separating back and public rooms, once stood. The young man in the green jacket and white hat, followed, weaving his own way discreetly through the crowd.  
   
“You done sayin’ yer prayers, Pipsqueak?”  
   
Something in Dick Faraday’s tone of voice made Stacy glance up. That bully from Miller’s ranch had poor Frankie by the lapels with one hand. The latter’s feet dangled helplessly in mid-air. Stacy, with heart in mouth, looked over at Molly. No signal was given. She swallowed, then made her way over toward Dick Faraday, Clarissa, and the hapless Frankie.  
   
   
   
Meanwhile, three more uninvited guests ended up in the midst of Matt Wilson’s bachelor party: the Silver Dollar’s piano player, the card dealer at the high stakes poker game, and a saloon girl. The two men ended up in an ungainly heap on top of the unconscious high stakes gambler, still lying sprawled on top of the door.

“Hey, good cake,” the piano player declared, sampling from the remains scattered all over the floor.  
   
“Yeah?” Hoss studied some of the scattered remains of cake and icing spread across the floor in an irregular shaped circular pattern, emanating from under the door.  
   
The saloon girl tripped over the still unconscious gambler’s outstretched arm and tumbled into the line of can-can dancers, knocking three of them to the floor.   
   
“Hey! What’s the big idea?” one of the dancers demanded petulantly, a tall, lanky woman with a mop of honey brown curls.  
   
“You wanna make somethin’ of it?” the saloon girl challenged.  
   
“What if I do?”  
   
The saloon girl balled her fist and struck with a good hard left jab, sending the can-can dancer reeling into the outstretched arms of the groom-to-be.

“Ooohh, merci,” the dancer beamed, as she eyed the handsome Matt, up and down from head to toe, very appreciatively.  
   
“Sorry,” Matt said with genuine regret. “I’m getting married at two o’clock t’morrow.”  
   
“You’re not married yet,” the dancer hastened to point out.  
   
“Sorry, Miss, bu’ his fiancee’d kill ‘im,” Adam said, freeing the dancer from Matt’s embrace.  
   
“How about YOU, Handsome?”  
   
“His WIFE’d kill him,” Matt said, his words beginning to slur.  
   
The dancer balled her hand into a tight fist and with one good hard punch sent Matt and Adam both down for the count.  
   
Ben and Hoss, meanwhile quickly helped the piano player and card dealer to their feet. The latter caught rapid movement in his peripheral vision, and glanced up.  
   
“ . . . s-say, uhhh . . . Pa?”  
   
“What is it, Hoss?”  
   
Hoss stood rooted to the spot like a deer caught in a strong light by night, staring in shocked horror at the utter chaos in the saloon beyond. “I-I knew somethin’ was goin’ on out there . . . . ”   
   
Ben slowly looked up. “HELL AND DAMNATION!” he roared. The mellowness instantly evaporated, leaving him rudely sober.   
   
“Ben?” it was Roy Coffee at his elbow. He turned his head in the direction Hoss and Ben were looking. His eyes grew round with horrified astonishment. “What the Sam Hill is goin’ on out there?”  
   
“Off the top of my head, Roy, I’d say that’s all hell breaking loose,” Ben said grimly.  
   
“Roy,” it was Sam, looking haggard. “Ya gotta help me! I’ve been trying for the last hour to break things up, but somehow, it keeps getting worse.”   
   
   
   
“Come on, Teresa,” Joe urged. “What’s taking you so long?”  
   
“I can’t find it,” Teresa cried, panic-stricken. The tiny room was littered with the entire contents of the chest of drawers, pulled from neatly folded piles and tossed about maniacally. Now, with heart in mouth, she did the same with the clothing hanging in the wardrobe.  
   
“What---?!” Joe squeaked. He took a moment to try and calm himself. “Teresa, what do you mean you can’t find it?” he demanded, his own panic rising. “It’s gotta be in there somewhere.”  
   
   
   
Stacy, her lower jaw set with grim, stubborn determination, walked up to Dick Faraday, bold as brass, and tapped him on the shoulder. “You big bully!” she challenged in tones of righteous outrage. “Why don’t you pick on someone your OWN size?”  
   
“Well, if it ain’t one o’ the high ‘n mighty Cartwrights,” Dick sneered, as he opened his hand. Frankie fell, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. Yet all the while, he kept his eyes riveted to Clarissa.  
   
Stacy delivered a hard swift kick to the big ranch hand’s left shin, wishing that her brother, Hoss, had been part of THIS caper instead of an invited guest at the bachelor party. Dick Faraday hopped up and down on his uninjured leg, bellowing like a sick cow. Clarissa exhaled a short, exasperated sigh, turned heel and walked toward the stairs. Frankie picked himself off the floor and bounded after her.   
   
“Come on, Grandpa and Teresa,” Stacy urged silently. “What’s taking so long?”

“Roy, isn’t that the new man at the Miller ranch?” Ben queried, watching Dick Faraday’s antics.  
   
“Where?”  
   
“There, hopping up and down like a rabid jack rabbit,” Ben pointed him out.  
   
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Roy said irritably, as he pulled his gun from its holster. “I’m going to put a stop to these shenanigans once and for all.”  
   
Roy pulled his gun from its holster, pointed to the floor and fired. The sound of gunfire ricocheted throughout the building, freezing everyone in his or her tracks.  
   
“Oooohhh??” Stacy looked up just in time to see Sheriff Coffee and her father emerge from the back room, both looking angrier than a nest of disturbed hornets. “UUH oh!”   
   
“YOU FOLKS, STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE,” Roy Coffee bellowed. “I’M GONNA GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS, IF IT TAKES ALL NIGHT!”  
   
“Frankie, come on,” Stacy whispered as she noiselessly dropped to her hands and knees.  
   
“But Joe said to watch--- ” Frankie began, speaking in his normal voice.   
   
“Don’t worry about Clarissa. Sheriff Coffee has her over there.” Stacy paused, then added meaningfully, “He’ll have US, too, if you don’t shut up and follow me.”   
   
Frankie dropped to his hands and knees beside Stacy, landing with a dull thud. Praying that the sound of Frankie hitting the floor had not alerted her pa or the sheriff, she half pushed, half dragged Frankie under the nearest table. Fortunately, it provided a good view of the stairs.

 

Joe started violently when he heard the gunfire downstairs. “Teresa, come on!” he urged, with heart in mouth. “I have a real strong feeling that things are about to get real ugly down there.”  
   
“I STILL can’t fi---! Wait! Here it is!” Teresa found the music box still in its original container hidden under the bed. She quickly retrieved it and ran for the door.

 

 

End of Part 3.

 

***

 

1\. Hiram Peabody and Sissy Somers Peabody appear in Bonanza Episode #337, “A Lawman’s Lot Is Not A Happy One,” written by Robert Vincent Wright.

 

2\. Don Miguel and his daughters appear in Bonanza Episode #185, “A Woman of Fire,” written by Suzanne Clauser.

 

3\. Phineas Burke ran for the office of Virginia City mayor in Bonanza Episode #309, “The Last Vote,” written by Robert Vincent Wright.


	4. Chapter 4

Roy Coffee swore Sam and Hoss in as deputies, then ordered them and Clem to confiscate everyone’s weapons. The three men moved through the crowd collecting the guns. Ben stood behind the sheriff watching the proceedings, with a murderous scowl on his face.  
   
“Ben, you and Adam can g’won home if you want,” Roy said.   
   
“Sure I can’t help, Roy?” Ben asked.  
   
“I can handle it, with Clem, Hoss and Sam helpin’ out,” Roy said. “I already let the other party guests go, since I know for fact none o’ THEM was involved in this fracas.” He paused long enough to manage a weary smile. “G’won, Ben, take Adam home and get him to bed. He’s got a big day ahead of him tomorrow . . . opps! Make that t’day!”   
   
Ben turned to glance in the back room where Adam, lying stretched out on one of the tables, slumbered in happy oblivion to what was going on around him.  
   
   
   
From her vantage point, Stacy saw Joe and Teresa heading for the top of the stairs, at a dead run. She frantically glanced around, trying to locate her father and Hoss. The former had turned his eyes away from the bar room to speak with Roy Coffee, and the latter was involved in an argument with a patron who refused to surrender his weapon. Stacy immediately seized the moment and crawled out from under the table, frantically signaling to her brother and sister-in-law. Joe saw her, looked in the direction she pointed and saw their father. His eyes grew round with horror, but he still had enough presence of mind to shove Teresa away from the steps and back down the hall.  
   
Stacy ducked back under the table, a split second before Ben finished his conversation with the sheriff and returned his attention to the bar room. “Ok, Frankie, we’re getting out of here,” she whispered.  
   
“How?”  
   
“Out the front door,” she replied. “Follow me.”  
   
“But, Joe said to go out where my sister is,” Frankie protested.  
   
“Frankie, there’s been a change of plans,” Stacy whispered back tersely. “If you don’t shut-up and follow me, so help me, I’m gonna throttle you.”  
   
“Y-you would, wouldn’t you?”  
   
“Within an inch of your life,” Stacy hissed. “Now come on.”  
   
Stacy and Frankie crawled to the wall, keeping as much as possible to the shelter of the tables. When they reached the swinging doors, Stacy, then Frankie, dropped from hands and knees to their bellies. Stacy wiggled quickly under the doors, then unceremoniously pulled Frankie after her. In the public room behind them someone yelled that his wallet was gone.  
   
Once outside, Stacy and Frankie crawled along the sidewalk past the broken window until they reached the safety of the alley.  
   
   
   
“Joe, I thought we were supposed to go out the back door downstairs,” Teresa said, as they fled back down the hall.  
   
“Can’t! Sheriff Coffee’s got everyone down there under house arrest,” Joe said. “Hoss has been sworn in as a deputy, so HE’S out there making rounds to confiscate weapons, and Pa’s just standing around watching, looking madder ‘n a wet hen.”  
   
“Where’s Adam?”  
   
“Don’t know, I didn’t see him,” Joe said. “You and I however have a big problem.”  
   
“I know. We’re trapped!”  
   
“Not yet . . . exactly,” Joe replied.  
   
“But the only way out is downstairs,” she hastened to point out.  
   
“I know another way,” Joe said as they both entered Clarissa’s room. He closed the door and placed a chair under the doorknob.   
   
“What other way?” Teresa demanded.  
   
“Over the roof,” he said, opening a window.  
   
“You’re kidding me.”  
   
“Nope,” Joe said, gesturing toward the open window. “Ladies first.”  
   
Joe took the music box from Teresa and set it on the ledge outside, before helping his sister-in-law climb through the open window. He climbed out after, pausing to close the window. “This way,” he said, picking up the music box. He took Teresa’s hand and led her along the narrow ledge. After a seeming eternity of inching their way down the length of narrow ledge, they finally reached balcony that ran parallel to C Street. Joe signaled for a halt. “Oh geeze loo-weeze!” he groaned.  
   
“What’s the matter?”  
   
“There’s a crowd gathering on the street below. We’ll never make it across that balcony without someone seeing us.”  
   
“NOW what’ll we do?”

“Back track the way we came,” Joe said. “We’ll sneak out of Clarissa’s room to the room across the hall. The window there opens out onto the alley where we’re meeting the others.”  
   
“Why didn’t we go that way in the first place?” Teresa demanded.  
   
“The room’s occupied.”  
   
“Oh great!” Teresa groaned, rolling her eyes heavenward in a silent prayer for fortitude and patience to whatever God or Gods may be listening.  
   
They reached Clarissa Starling’s room, and re-entered by the same way they had initially left. After handing Teresa the music box, Joe tiptoed across the room and noiselessly removed the chair holding the door. He pressed his ear against the closed door, and listened. All was silent. Gritting his teeth, he put his hand to the doorknob and turned it very slowly.  
   
“Well?” Teresa demanded sotto voce. “Is the coast clear?”  
   
Joe, with heart in mouth peered out into the hall. “Yes, come on,” he hissed.   
   
Joe and Teresa silently crossed the hallway and ducked through the closed door facing that of Clarissa Starling’s room.  
   
“What is the meaning of this?” an imperious voice demanded. A large portly man, dressed in flannel gray slacks and navy blue smoking jacket entered the room.  
   
“We were in the neighbor hood, so we thought we’d pass through?” Teresa quipped.  
   
“Joseph Cartwright!” the man declared with a triumphant smile. “Well! Well! Well! Having you drop in like this just might give me some bargaining leverage with your pa on behalf of the lumbering company.”  
   
“You know this man, Joe?” Teresa asked.  
   
“Josiah Tucker,” Joe groaned. “He’s acting as legal representative for a lumber company that wants to cut trees on the Ponderosa’s north west tract.”  
   
“I think they may want to fell trees along the lake as well,” Josiah said smugly.  
   
“H-how many?”  
   
“All of ‘em, all the way along the lake!”  
   
“I’m dead!” Joe whimpered.  
   
“Hey, Josiah Honey!” a stunning brunette, clad only in a towel that barely wrapped around her body, emerged from the bedroom area. “What’s taking so long?”  
   
“Sweetie Pie Honey Bunch, YOU are my salvation,” Joe crowed, as he planted a big sloppy kiss on the woman’s cheek.  
   
The woman grimaced and wiped her cheek vigorously with the palm of her hand.  
   
“You know this woman, Joe?” Teresa asked.  
   
“It’s not a question of knowing who the woman IS,” Joe said, greedily savoring the unexpected fruits of victory. “It’s a matter of knowing who the woman ISN’T?”  
   
“Ok, who ISN’T the woman?”  
   
“This woman ISN’T Mister Tucker’s wife,” Joe crowed. He turned and patted Josiah Tucker’s cheek. “Do give my regards to the REAL lovely Mrs. Tucker?”  
   
Josiah lashed out in anger and frustration. His balled fist connected hard with Joe’s left cheek.   
   
The force of the blow sent Joe Cartwright stumbling backwards. Less than a half dozen steps later, Joe’s leg slammed against the edge of a low coffee table scattering every last sense of balance to the proverbial winds. Joe frantically waggled his arms in a desperate bid to regain some small measure of equilibrium, all to no avail. He toppled over backwards, screaming loudly. He crashed into the coffee table, shattering it into pieces of kindling.  
   
Teresa immediately snatched up an oversized vase, filled with fresh flowers, and crept up behind the lawyer.  
   
“Josiah, look out!” the brunette tried to shout a warning.  
   
Teresa brought the vase crashing down on his head, before his companion could complete her warning. Josiah Tucker groaned, then collapsed to the floor like a sack of potatoes. She and her young brother-in-law ran for the window and made their escape while the brunette ran to her fallen companion. Joe and Teresa dropped from the window of Josiah Tucker’s room into the alley, where they found Stacy and the O’Hanlans waiting anxiously.  
   
“I was beginning to fear the worst,” Stacy said, feeling almost giddy with relief. She frowned, noting suddenly that her brother sported a nasty looking black eye. “What happened to YOU, Grandpa?” she asked.  
   
“We took a short cut through Josiah Tucker’s hotel room,” Teresa explained.  
   
“Oh no!” It took every ounce of will Stacy possessed to keep her voice from rising. “Is he the one who . . . you know, the lumbering contracts?”  
   
Joe nodded, grinning like a the Cheshire Cat.  
   
“We’re dead.”  
   
“Oh no we’re not,” Joe declared with an impish grin. “The woman upstairs in the room with Mister Tucker wasn’t MRS. Tucker.”  
   
Stacy looked at him in surprise for a moment, then started to giggle. Molly and Joe found themselves giggling right along with Stacy. Teresa succumbed next, followed at long last by Frankie. Their giggles quickly escalated to uproarious laughter.  
   
“Come on, we’d better get out of here while the getting’s good,” Joe said, wiping the mirthful tears from his eyes.   
   
“Frankie and I don’t know how to thank you guys,” Molly said gratefully.  
   
“One way you can thank us is to make sure this gets home safe,” Joe said, as he handed the music box to Molly.  
   
“You bet I will,” Molly promised.  
   
“Y’ know? Now that it’s all over . . . I had FUN tonight,” Joe declared with a grin.  
   
“So did I,” Stacy agreed. “There WERE a few heart stopping moments, though . . . . ”  
   
“Wow! You Cartwrights sure have some strange ideas of fun!” Frankie said, shaking his head.  
   
“Whatever you do, Frankie, please don’t make mention of that to Pa,” Joe cautioned. “That may start him asking all kinds of embarrassing questions.”  
   
“I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years,” Teresa confessed with a smile. “But, now that the fun’s over, I think we’d all better go home.”  
   
“Now that’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Cartwright.” It was Sheriff Coffee, waiting on the sidewalk at the end of the alley. “The fun ain’t over . . . NOT by a long shot! In fact, the fun’s just about to start.”  
   
“Sheriff Coffee, what’s this all about?” Joe demanded.  
   
“Francis O’Hanlan, Junior, Stacy Rose, Teresa di Cordova, ‘n Joseph Francis Cartwright, you’re all under arrest,” he informed them with stiff formality. “THAT’S what this is all about.”  
   
“Under arrest?!” Joe echoed incredulously. “What for?”  
   
“Stacy Rose Cartwright, YOU’RE charged with inciting a riot and vandalism,” Roy said sternly.   
   
“Vandalism?!” Stacy echoed looking at the sheriff askance. “I didn’t break one thing, Sheriff Coffee, I swear.”  
   
“You’re guilty by association,” Roy snapped. “That fight you started tore the inside of the Silver Dollar apart. Place looks like a tornado hit it. Y’ oughtta be ashamed o’ yourself!”   
   
“Hoo boy! Pa’s gonna have a fit!” Stacy gulped.  
   
“Y’ shouldda thought o’ THAT ‘fore y’ started that fight at the Silver Dollar,” Roy said sternly. He, then, turned his attention to the others and continued to recite the litany of charges. “Francis Sean O’Hanlan, Junior, YOU’RE charged with harassing Miss Clarissa Starling. Joseph Francis Cartwright and Teresa di Cordova Cartwright, the two of YOU are charged with breaking and entering, and stealing.” He paused a moment to catch his breath. “Oh, yeah . . . Joe, you’re also being charged for all the petty thefts that’ve been goin’ on around town over the past couple o’ months.”  
   
“WHAT?!” Joe shrieked. “No way!”  
   
“Just about everyone back there in the saloon . . . what’s LEFT of it . . . . ” Roy added that last with a hard angry glare at Stacy, “ . . . is missin’ something, whether it be a wallet, purse, jewelry, or a watch. Several folks remembered seein’ a green leather jacket and a white hat.”  
   
“Sheriff Coffee, Joe Cartwright was with me the entire evening,” Teresa declared. “I’m willing to swear on a stack of Bibles, if I have to.”  
   
“There ain’t too many judges around who’ll take seriously the word of a woman charged with breakin’ into a saloon gal’s room an’ stealin’ her music box, Mrs. Cartwright,” the sheriff pointed out.  
   
Teresa lapsed into a sullen silence.  
   
“Last, every one of ya’s been charged with assault and battery. I’ll take that.” Roy deftly confiscated the music box.

“Sheriff Coffee, please,” Molly begged. “That music box is MINE. Frankie and I got it to be a wedding gift for our sister.”  
   
“Some o’ the gals over at the Silver Dollar says it belongs t’ Clarissa Starling,” Roy said. “You have a bill of sale for it?”  
   
“I have one . . . I think it’s in my purse,” Molly stammered.  
   
“Why don’t you accompany the rest of us to my office, as long as you don’t mind keeping company with this lot o’ hooligans?” Roy suggested in a kindlier tone. “Y’ can search through your purse there.”  
   
“I’m not under arrest, too?”  
   
“No, Molly, you’re not,” Roy said. “People saw you standin’ next to the back door, but to a man said you weren’t involved in the fracas this evenin’.” He glared over at her brother and the Cartwrights. “You know, Molly, a nice gal like you oughtta be more careful about the company she keeps.”  
   
Molly felt a tremendous sense of relief, mixed with overwhelming guilt.

 

Ben, meanwhile, arrived home in a buckboard borrowed from the livery in town. Buck and Sport II, securely hitched to the back end, followed. Adam lay sprawled in the back of the wagon, blissfully snoring away, without a care in the world. Ben turned and wearily shook his oldest son’s shoulder, after bringing the horses to a stop. The lateness of the hour and alcohol consumed at the bachelor party had begun to take its toll. He was ready for bed. “Adam, wake up,” Ben said, trying hard to keep his eyes open just a few moments longer. “We’re home.”   
   
“Home, Pa?” Adam murmured without opening his eyes. His jaw went limp again, and his snoring resumed.  
   
“Mister Cartwright! Mister Cartwright!” Hop Sing ran from the house, looking distraught.

“What is it, Hop Sing?”  
   
“Little Joe, Miss Stacy, and Mrs. Teresa not home yet,” Hop Sing said frantically.  
   
“What?!” A sudden rush of adrenalin roused Ben from his lethargy.  
   
“I said Little Joe, Miss Stacy, and Mrs. Teresa not home yet,” Hop Sing repeated.  
   
“That’s not possible,” Ben shook his head. “Hop Sing, they have to be home.”  
   
“Not home. I home all night,” Hop Sing continued.  
   
The sound of horse hooves abruptly silenced all conversation. It was Hoss, looking grim. “Pa, I’m glad I caught you ‘fore you turned in,” he said. “Sheriff Coffee’s got Joe, Stacy, ‘n Teresa locked up in jail.”  
   
“Joe’s in jail?!” Ben asked. Granted, Joe’s quick temper occasionally landed him in minor scrapes ending up in the Virginia City jail. Though rare in recent years, this was nothing new. “Wait a minute--- Hoss, did I hear you say Stacy and Teresa, too?”  
   
Hoss nodded.   
   
“On what charge?”  
   
“Char-GES, Pa,” Hoss said. “Joe and Teresa are charged with breaking into the room of one o’ the gals at the Silver Dollar, an’ stealing a fancy music box.”  
   
“Now why would Teresa . . . or Joe for that matter want to steal a music box belonging to a saloon girl?” Ben demanded. “None of this makes any sense.”   
   
“Pa, Joe’s also been charged with that rash of thefts that’s been goin’ on around town,” Hoss continued.  
   
For one brief horrifying moment, Ben was almost sure he was going to faint. “How is that possible? Except for the curly brown hair, your brother doesn’t begin to fit the description Stacy gave the day before yesterday.”  
   
“Seems the thief had a field day this evenin’,” Hoss said. “A fair number o’ folks said they remember bumpin’ into a fella wearin’ a green jacket and a white hat.”  
   
“I’m almost afraid to ask this next question, but how did STACY end up in jail?” Ben asked. “Is SHE charged with stealing a saloon girl’s music box or picking pockets, too?”   
   
“No, Sir,” Hoss replied.   
   
“That’s a relief . . . . ”  
   
“Li’l Sister’s charged with starting that fight at the Silver Dollar.”  
   
Ben’s dark brown eyes grew round with shocked astonishment. “Hoss, did you just say that . . . that Stacy’s charged with starting that ruckus at the Silver Dollar this evening??!”  
   
“Yes, Sir.”  
   
Ben rolled his eyes and sighed.  
   
“ ‘Ey, Pa,” Adam roused slightly. “I guesshh nex’ time ya turn Schstacy loosh in Virginny City, you’ll tell ‘er t’ behave hershelf, an’ y’ll really mean it.”  
   
“Adam, not another word,” Ben said stiffly, before turning to his second son. “Hoss, can you get your brother upstairs to bed?”  
   
“Sure thing, Pa.” Hoss lifted the somnolent Adam from the back of the buckboard with almost ridiculous ease and slung him over his shoulder. He started for the house. Adam’s body went limp, and he started to snore.  
   
“Come right back, Hoss,” Ben called him. “You and I are going back to Virginia City.”  
   
“Ok, Pa.”  
   
“Hop Sing, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d rouse Candy or Hank to take care of the horses.”  
   
“Right away, Mister Cartwright.”  
   
“Now,” Ben said, addressing no one in particular, “would someone please wake me up and tell me I’m dreaming?”  
   
   
   
“ROY, WHAT THE HELL’S THE MEANING OF THIS?! WHAT ARE MY SON, MY DAUGHTER, AND MY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW DOING IN JAIL?!”  
   
The incarcerated Cartwrights heard Ben’s voice loud and clear in Roy Coffee’s office on the other side of a fast closed door. Stacy and Teresa occupied one cell, while Joe shared the other with Frankie O’Hanlan. Molly O’Hanlan sat glumly on a stool outside the jail cells.  
   
“We’re dead now,” Joe said morosely.  
   
“It could be worse, Grandpa,” Stacy said.  
   
“I’d sure like to know how,” Joe said, looking over at his sister as if she had just sprouted a matched pair of purple horns.  
   
“If Pa doesn’t keep his voice down, Sheriff Coffee might arrest him for disturbing the peace and toss him in there with you guys,” she said.  
   
Frankie groaned. “I don’t wanna even think about that.”   
   
“Yeah? Well that makes TWO of us, Frankie,” Joe agreed wholeheartedly.  
   
“Surely things aren’t as bad as you’re making out,” Teresa said.  
   
“No, they’re worse actually . . . . ” Stacy said.  
   
“ . . . and it’s all MY fault,” Molly sighed.  
   
“It is NOT, Molly O’Hanlan,” Stacy said emphatically. “You get that idea right out of your head. It’s all Clarissa’s fault, if it’s anyone’s! She had no right to keep a music box she knew darn well didn’t belong to her.”  
   
“Thank goodness Molly found the bill of sale in her purse,” Frankie said.  
   
   
   
“Molly O’Hanlan showed me a bill of sale, so the charges of stealing have been dropped,” Roy said wearily. “Sam said if you’re willing to pay for the damage done to the saloon, he’s willing to drop the rest of the charges.”  
   
“How much?” Ben asked through clenched teeth.  
   
Roy reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out five sheets of paper, all clipped together. “This is the list of damages, Ben.”  
   
“FIVE PAGES?!” Ben bellowed.   
   
“TEN pages, Ben,” Roy corrected him in a wry tone. “Whoever wrote that up . . . wrote on BOTH sides.”  
   
Ben snatched the list of damages from the sheriff with a short, curt sigh of pure exasperation. He silently read over the list, and double-checked the figures. “Ok, I’ll pay for all the damages,” he finally agreed through clenched teeth.   
   
“All right, Ben,” Roy said, taking the ring, holding the keys to the jail cells, off its customary hook. “I’ll go back and release them now.”  
   
Ben placed a hand on Roy’s shoulder. “Not just yet, Roy,” he said. “I’d like to visit them first.”  
   
 

Ben stood in the center of the room, where the jail cells were located, back straight, arms folded across his chest. In his righteous anger he presented an imposing, almost menacing figure. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, what have you got to say for yourself?” he demanded.  
   
Stacy swallowed. “If you’re asking me whether or not I started that fight at the Silver Dollar, yes, I did,” she replied, laboring to keep her voice even, “ . . . kinda . . . sort of.”  
   
“Kinda, sort of?” Ben echoed, favoring his daughter with a dark angry glare. “KINDA, SORT OF?!!”  
   
“I didn’t start it directly, Pa,” Stacy explained. “I let Sally Tyler and Laurie Lee Bonner start it.”  
   
“What kind of lies did you tell them to accomplish that?” Ben demanded.  
   
“I didn’t tell any lies at all,” Stacy replied, equally outraged. “I just let them draw their own conclusions.”  
   
“Do you have any idea how much damage was done by letting those two saloon gals draw their own conclusions?” Ben growled.  
   
“ . . . uh, no . . . . ”  
   
Ben whipped out the report and started to read. “Broken mirrors, THREE. . . fifty dollars apiece! Broken windows, total one hundred dollars! Smashed inventory . . . three hundred dollars! And the list goes on and on for ten pages,” he yelled. “TEN PAGES!” He paused to take a deep breath. “I trust you have a good explanation for this?”  
   
“Yes, Sir, I do,” Stacy replied.  
   
“I’d be very interested in hearing it,” Ben said.

“I can’t tell you, Pa,” Stacy said.  
   
“WHY IN THUNDERATION CAN’T YOU?” Ben exploded.  
   
“Because I’m not a tattle tale,” Stacy declared. “I freely admit my own part in this, and I’ll face whatever music I have to. But, I won’t tell on someone else.”  
   
Both father and daughter glared at each other for a long moment, until at length, Ben sighed. “Alright, Stacy, I can’t fault your principles,” he said. “I’m going to deduct the cost of damages from your allowance, however, which by MY calculations you should start seeing again when you turn thirty.”  
   
“ . . . uh, Pa?” Joe meekly ventured, “the ummm . . . reason Stacy, uhm, let Sally and Laurie Lee draw their own conclusions is because I, uhhh . . . I . . . told her to.”  
   
Ben turned and glared at his youngest son. “You told Stacy to start that fight at the Silver Dollar?” he echoed incredulously.   
   
“Not exactly, Sir,” Joe said contritely.   
   
“What do you mean not exactly?” Ben demanded. “Either you told Stacy to start that fight, or you didn’t. Which is it?”  
   
“M-My exact words were to . . . to create a diversion.”  
   
“What in the world for?!”  
   
“Sorry, Pa, I can’t tell you,” Joe said.   
   
Ben exhaled an explosive sigh of pure and simple vexation.  
   
“Ben, Joe asked Stacy to create a diversion so I could sneak into Clarissa Starling’s room and get the music box,” Teresa confessed.  
   
Ben looked over at his daughter-in-law, and rolled his eyes. “This is getting better all the time,” he said with thinly veiled sarcasm. “I don’t suppose YOU can tell me why, either?”  
   
“Sorry, Ben,” Teresa shook her head.  
   
“Mister Cartwright, this is all MY fault,” Molly suddenly burst into tears. “They did it to help me get my music box back. Please don’t be too hard on Stacy, Joe, and Teresa . . . please?”  
   
In the face of Molly’s anguished tears, Ben’s anger lessened. He walked over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Molly,” he said quietly, “would you mind telling me the whole story, from the beginning?”  
   
   
   
Molly O’Hanlan’s tale left Ben shaking his head. He wearily summoned the sheriff to release all the prisoners, including Frankie O’Hanlan.  
   
“I’m afraid Joe’s gonna have to stay here, Ben,” Roy said.  
   
“What for?” Ben demanded. “I thought we’d cleared everything up.”  
   
“There’s still the matter of that rash o’ petty thefts, Ben,” Roy said.  
   
“Sheriff Coffee?”  
   
“Yes, Stacy?”  
   
“You can, uh . . . clear THAT matter up very quickly,” Stacy ventured a trifle hesitantly.  
   
“How?” Roy asked.  
   
“Check for the tattoo.”  
   
“Stacy’s right,” Ben said.  
   
Roy shrugged. “Joe,” he turned toward the remaining prisoner. “Please turn toward the wall and drop your pants.”  
   
“WHAT?!”  
   
“You heard the sheriff, Son,” Ben said, taking a measure of perverse enjoyment Joe’s predicament.  
   
“Pa . . . . ”  
   
“NOW, Joseph,” Ben growled. “I’m tired and I want very much to go home and go to bed.”  
   
“Would you mind asking Teresa, Stacy, and Molly to step into the next room?” Joe demanded.  
   
“Come on, Stacy and Molly,” Teresa said, unable to keep from smiling.   
   
Teresa quickly ushered the two younger females out of the holding area, into the sheriff’s office. Ben, Frankie, and a very mortified Joe followed a few moments later, with Sheriff Coffee bringing up the rear.  
   
“I’m gonna getcha f’r this, Kid, so help me . . . . ” Joe, his face still beet red, hissed in his sister’s ear in passing.  
   
“Ok . . . fine! You DO that!” Stacy snapped. “The next time something like this happens, Grandpa, I’ll go ahead and letcha ROT in jail.”   
   
“Needless t’ say the charges against Joe for all the petty thefts can definitely be dropped,” Roy declared with a grin. “Oh! By the way, Stacy, I have something for you, too.”  
   
“Uh oh,” Stacy gulped.   
   
“You got some reward money coming.”  
   
“Reward money?!” Stacy looked at him askance.  
   
“What’s this all about, Roy?” Ben asked.  
   
“Stacy’s responsible for the capture of one Mister Buck Capshaw,” Roy explained. “He was the fella you caught cheatin’ at cards, Stacy. Your sucker punch put him down for the count.”  
   
“Sucker punch?” Ben echoed. “Wait a minute! Was that the guy who crashed the bachelor party by flying through the door . . . and landing in the cake?”  
   
“No comment, Pa,” Stacy said very quickly.  
   
“This Capshaw fella’s got a list a mile long, Ben, fraud, theft, robbery, murder . . . . ”  
   
Stacy paled. “Muh, muh, muh m-murder?!” she gulped. For a moment, it looked as though she was going faint right there on the spot.  
   
“It would serve her right,” Ben mused archly, in silence.  
   
“You name it, he’s done it,” Roy blithely rambled on. “The reward for his capture’s a thousand dollars.”  
   
Stacy’s constitution rallied instantly at the mention of the monetary amount of the reward.  
   
“Here, you are, Stacy.”  
   
“Not so fast,” Ben said, snatching the wad of cash from Roy’s hand before Stacy could so much as touch it. “First, I deduct for the damage to the Silver Dollar Saloon.”  
   
Stacy’s face fell. “H-how much is there going to be left over, Pa?”   
   
“Here,” Ben placed a shiny penny in her hand.  
   
“That’s it!?”  
   
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” Ben said wryly.  
   
“Does this mean I can start getting my allowance?” she asked, looking hopeful.  
   
“We’ll discuss that later,” Ben said wearily. “For now, I just want to go home.”

 

The following morning, Hoss rose at the crack of dawn. He washed and dressed, taking great care to do so quietly, so not to wake the others. He was grimly bound and determined to go for a ride, do his daily chores, muck out the barn, dig a new latrine . . . ANYTHING to avoid putting in an appearance at the breakfast table this morning. After he had finished dressing, Hoss tiptoed across his bedroom to the door. He turned the knob very slowly, with heart in mouth, and opened the door. “I’m sure glad I oiled those hinges when Pa asked me to a couple o’ weeks ago,” Hoss mused in silence.

He paused briefly at the threshold between his bedroom and the hallway, then taking a deep breath, he stepped into the hall and noiselessly shut the door behind him. Two steps later, he stepped on a loose, creaking floorboard, just outside his father’s bedroom. The noise was almost deafening. Hoss froze. The even rhythm of Adam snoring in his old room at the end of the hall fell out of cadence, as it rose in volume and grew more guttural. After what seemed a dreadfully tense eternity to Hoss, his older brother’s snoring gradually resumed its natural rhythm. There was no noise from his father’s room, or any of the other rooms. Hoss slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding, and continued on toward the stairs.

“Good morning, Hoss,” Ben greeted him as he passed the first landing.

Hoss started violently. He would have almost certainly taken a tumble down the rest of the stairs had it not been for quick reflexes, enabling him to grab hold of the banister. “ ‘M-mornin’, Pa,” he stammered.

“Sorry I startled you,” Ben said rising from the sofa. Though clad in pajamas, robe, and slippers, he looked as if he had not yet been to bed. “You’re up early this morning.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d get up an’ get my chores done, ‘n outta the way, this bein’ Matt ‘n Colleen’s weddin’ day, ‘n all,” the words tumbled from Hoss’ mouth, one right after the other.

“The wedding is at two o’clock in the afternoon, Hoss,” Ben said, favoring his second son with a puzzled frown. “You could have overslept this morning and STILL completed your chores in plenty of time.”

“I, uuhh, also thought it might be good t’ get Chubb out for a li’l bit o’ exercise this mornin’, too,” Hoss said a bit too quickly.

“BEFORE breakfast?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, Son,” Ben said with a bemused look on his face. “It’s just a little unusual . . . for YOU.”

Hoss sighed. There was never any getting around his father, especially at the times he wanted to do so the most. “Alright, Pa, the plain truth of it is, I kinda didn’t want t’ be around when the cattle crud hits the nitro, if y’ get my meanin’?”

“I see,” Ben said with an odd look on his face.

“Seein’ as how quiet everyone was comin’ home last night, an’ we all pretty much just went t’ bed, I kinda figured you’d be wantin’ to talk to Joe, Stacy . . . and Teresa, too, I expect . . . in private,” Hoss explained, as he descended the remaining stairs.

“Yes, that would probably be best,” Ben said slowly, “talking to them in private, that is . . . . ”

“Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Son?”

“Please . . . don’t be too hard on ‘em? Maybe they didn’t exactly go about doin’ things quite the way they shudda, but they WERE tryin’ t’ help out a friend.”

“I’ll . . . try to remember that.”

“See ya later, Pa,” Hoss said, as he stepped out the front door.

 

The rest of the Cartwright Clan gathered for breakfast a couple of hours later. Ben, now washed and fully dressed, sat in his usual place at the head of the table, surveying the family members assembled, in silence. Adam, still clad in pajamas and robe, occupied the chair to his father’s left, nursing the royal mother of all headaches. He sat with eyes closed, gingerly massaging his temples, with both elbows flanking a generous plate full of eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and biscuits, virtually untouched. The savory aroma of food and coffee sent his stomach into agonizing paroxysms. This morning, Joe occupied Hoss’ place at the table, with Stacy in the chair next to him. Teresa demurely sat next to her husband. All three of them stared down at their plates morosely.

“Eat!” Hop Sing sternly admonished, as entered the dining room with a pot of fresh, hot coffee. “Hop Sing NOT slave over hot stove to throw food out in garden, feed birds.”

Ben couldn’t help but note that he alone had a decent appetite. “Hop Sing?”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“I think Adam might be in need of a dose or two of your hangover medicine,” he said.

Adam groaned softly. “Oh no, Pa, please!”

“For own good, Mister Adam,” Hop Sing said curtly, as he studied the eldest of the Cartwright offspring with a frown. “Must be well to be best man at wedding. I go . . . fix medicine.” With that, he abruptly turned heel and beat a straight path back to the kitchen.

“Thanks a lot, Pa,” Adam said, wincing on every word. “What’d I ever do to you?”

“Now, now, Adam, Hop Sing is right,” Ben said in a gentle, but firm tone. “I know it’s a little rough going down . . . . ”

“A LITTLE rough?” Adam moaned.

“OK, it’s VERY rough going down,” Ben admitted with a reluctant sigh.

“Care to try for downright repulsive?” Adam countered irritably, as his stomach lurched.

“It works,” Ben hastened to point out.

“Maybe so, but it’s a lot worse than the hangover itself,” Adam groaned, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “I . . . I’m g-going back to bed.”

“Good idea, Son,” Ben agreed. “You want an escort?”

“No thanks, Pa. I can manage.”

Ben waited until Adam was safely upstairs before turning his attention to the three remaining at the table. “I’ve been doing some thinking about last night,” he began. “I realize you three were trying to help out a couple of friends. Things just got . . . a little . . . out of hand, that’s all.”

“Thanks for putting it diplomatically, Pa,” Joe said contritely. “But, the truth is, things got ‘WAY outta hand.”

“I have one question,” Ben said. “Why didn’t you ask Sheriff Coffee to help you get back the music box?”

“Because we had no concrete proof that Clarissa Starling actually had the music box,” Joe replied. “All we had was Lotus O’Toole’s word. Sure, I trust HER word more than I trust a lot of other peoples’, but it’s still Lotus’ word against Clarissa Starling’s.”

“I see,” Ben murmured softly.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“I’ve been doing some thinking myself since we got home last night . . . . ”

“And?”

“This whole fiasco was MY idea,” Joe said. “I was the ring leader. If ANYONE should in any way punished, it should be ME . . . not Stacy.”

“Thanks, Grandpa, however there’s a bit of a problem with that . . . . ”

“What?” Joe asked.

“Well . . . nobody held a gun to my head and forced me to go along with you last night,” Stacy said. “I agreed of my own free will.”

“Kid, your sense of honor’s gonna be the death of you someday,” Joe said quietly, with a smile.

“So’s YOURS, Grandpa.”

“The most important thing is Molly and Frankie O’Hanlan got their music box back,” Ben said. “I’m also pleased to report that all the charges against you have been dropped, AND the damage done to the Silver Dollar Saloon has been paid for.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to . . . to . . . punish Joe and me?” Stacy ventured hesitantly, fearful of asking that question, yet more fearful of NOT asking that question.

“I won’t take the pair of ya out to the barn,” Ben replied. “I’ve decided that much. However, I can’t let ya off the hook either. Yes . . . Miss Starling did wrong in keeping that music box to spite Matt and Colleen. But YOU did wrong, too, when you decided to take the law into your own hands.”

“Are you saying we should’ve gone to Sheriff Coffee anyway . . . even though there wasn’t anything he could’ve done?” Stacy asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Young Woman,” Ben replied. “In the first place, neither one of you know . . . not for absolute certain . . . that there WASN’T something that Roy could have done. Had you gone to him with everything that Miss O’Toole told YOU, Joe . . . the bill of sale for the music box that Molly had in HER possession . . . Frankie’s story about taking the music box to the Silver Dollar and showing it to Miss Starling, why I’ll betcha Roy would have had a strong enough case to have gotten permission to search the Silver Dollar from top to bottom.”

“I didn’t even think of that, Pa,” Joe said contritely.

“Pa, what if it turned out that Sheriff Coffee couldn’t search the Silver Dollar from top to bottom because it DID come down to things being Miss O’Toole’s word against Miss Starling’s?” Stacy asked.

“Stacy, one of the hardest lessons we ALL have to learn is that our legal system isn’t perfect,” Ben replied. “Although it works most of the time, occasionally the guilty DO end up going free and the innocent are punished.”

“That’s not fair!” Stacy declared with an angry scowl.

“You’re right. On THOSE occasions, it’s NOT fair,” Ben said, “but, most of the time, it IS fair, and as responsible citizens, we have an obligation to abide by its laws and the rulings handed down within its courts.”

“Even if it meant that Miss Starling ended up keeping the music box Molly and Frankie got for Colleen and Matt?” Stacy pressed.

“Yes, Stacy . . . even then, as difficult and as unfair that may have been,” Ben replied. “If everyone decided to abide only by the laws and court decisions favorable to them, and to disregard the rest . . . there would be no equality . . . no justice . . . no protection . . . no freedom for anyone, especially the poor and the weak among us. You and I are going to have plenty of time to discuss this further because, in addition to extra chores and no allowance for a month, you’re also confined to the house and the yard for the next two weeks.”

“Yes, Pa,” Stacy murmured softly, resigned to paying the piper for her actions the night before. At the same time, she was deeply relieved and exceedingly grateful payment didn’t include the trip out to the barn with her father. “Does this mean I . . . that I can’t go to the wedding?”

“I’m willing to make an exception for the wedding,” Ben said firmly, “but nothing else . . . and that includes training Sun Dancer for the Founders’ Day Race. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Pa,” Stacy replied. “That’s understood.”

Satisfied with his daughter’s response, Ben next turned his attention to his youngest son. “Joe, you’re not a child anymore . . . you’re a grown man,” he began, “and BECAUSE you’re a grown man, I can’t take away your allowance or put you on restriction--- ”

“Maybe not, Pa . . . but you COULD withhold my wages, Pa,” Joe said quietly, “for . . . oh, I think a month would be fair . . . and there’s more than enough extra chores to go around between The Kid AND me over the next couple of weeks.”

“You don’t have to do this, Grandpa,” Stacy said.

“I’m afraid I do, Stace,” Joe said. “Like Pa just got through saying, I’m a grown man. That means I’ve gotta ACT like one . . . and part of acting like one means owning up to it when I do something wrong, and taking MY punishment, too.”

“ . . . and you . . . y-you get to s-set a good example for me in the bargain . . . Honorable and . . . and Venerable . . . Older Brother S-Sir,” Stacy said, her voice unsteady and her eyes shining with unusual brightness. Acting purely on impulse, she turned and threw her arms around Joe’s neck and gave him a great big bear hug.

“NOW you’ve . . . you’ve . . . y-you’ve r-really gone and d-done it, Kid,” Joe said, in a voice equally tremulous, as he wrapped his arms tight around his sister’s shoulders.

“Son, I want you to know that I’m very proud of you,” Ben said, with all sincerity, his own voice catching. He, then, turned to his daughter-in-law. “Teresa, Adam WAS pretty far out of it when HE came home last night. I seriously doubt he knows what time YOU actually got home, and I give you my word he won’t hear it from me.”

“Thank you, Ben, I appreciate that,” Teresa said sincerely, “because it’s MY place to tell Adam, and I intend to do just that after he’s recovered a bit from his hangover.”

“Teresa, are you sure---?!” Ben asked, looking over at her with a mixture of puzzlement and admiration.

“I’m sure, Ben,” Teresa said quietly, with a wan smile. “First of all, sooner or later, someone’s going to let slip about last night. It would be a lot better and a lot more honest if Adam heard it first from ME.” She paused briefly, then added, “ . . . and . . . I must confess . . . that I laid Adam out like a Persian rug the night HE ended up in jail after the bachelor party for my brother, Miguel. I’d feel like the worst hypocrite in the world if I didn’t at the very least give HIM the chance even the score.”

“You know, I think your sense of honor’s going to someday be the death of all THREE of you,” Ben said admiringly, his own eyes suddenly blinking to excess.

“Thank you, Ben,” Teresa said quietly, as she rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go upstairs and look in on Adam.” She turned and cast an anxious glance over in the general direction of the stairs. “I sure hope he’s going to be well enough to stand up with his friend, Matt, this afternoon.”

“You don’t have to worry about a thing about that, Teresa,” Joe said with a confident smile. “Hop Sing’s hangover cure goes to work so fast, you’d almost swear it was some kinda powerful hocus-pocus instead of a bunch of dried out weeds thrown into boiling water. Of course, it doesn’t go down real easy . . . . ”

“It might be a good idea to get Hoss in here, so he’ll be handy in case Hop Sing needs him to hold Adam down long enough to get the hangover cure in him,” Ben said slowly.

“Stacy and I’ll go out to the barn and get him, Pa,” Joe said, as he rose from his place at the table, and stretched.

“Yeah,” Stacy agreed, as she, also, rose and quickly pushed her chair under the table. “I guess now’s as good a time as any for us to get started on doing those extra chores.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Joe agreed.

 

“Grandpa?” Stacy queried as she and Joe made their way across the short distance of yard lying between the front porch and the barn door.

“Yeah, Kiddo?”

“I sure hope that Molly and Frankie are gonna be alright,” Stacy said with an anxious frown.

“They oughtta be,” Joe said. “After we left Sheriff Coffee’s office sometime in the wee hours of the morning, we saw them right to their front door, safe and sound.”

“YOU know how Mrs. O’Hanlan is. If she EVER finds out about what happened last night, especially the part about Frankie being arrested and thrown into jail . . . . ” Stacy exhaled a long melancholy sigh. “She’s gonna have a cow and a litter of kittens, too. Poor Frankie and Molly will be in it clear up to their to their necks.”

“I, ummm . . . hate like all get out having to tell ya this, Kid, but I don’t think it’s going to be so much a question of IF she finds out, as it’s going to be of WHEN she finds out.”

“Wh-WHEN she finds out?” Stacy queried with a sinking heart.

“What happened at the Silver Dollar last night’s gonna be big news this morning, Kiddo, if it isn’t already,” Joe explained, “ . . . and you know how quickly things spread by word of mouth.”

“Poor Molly,” Stacy shook her head, “and Frankie . . . . ”

 

“Colleen, you run up to your ma’s night table an’ fetch t’ smellin’ salts,” Francis O’Hanlan ordered his eldest child. “Frankie, you’ll find a half full bottle o’ whiskey in t’ bottom left drawer of m’ desk in the den.”

“Is that t’ one y’ keep around for medicinal purposes, Pa?” Frankie asked.

“Aye, that’s the very one,” Francis replied.

Colleen and Frankie ran off to do their father’s bidding.

“Pa, a-about last night . . . . ” Molly ventured.

“Why don’t you g’won up to your room and wrap up that fine music box, Lass?” Francis replied. “Frankie’s arse’ll be the soup for sure when your ma comes to, but y’ needn’t concern yourself with his misfortunes.”

“Yes, I do, Pa,” Molly said, “because . . . .” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “ . . . . I was there, too, last night, and . . . I’M the one who made Frankie go.”

Francis glanced up at his youngest daughter sharply.

Molly quickly lowered her eyes to her hands, folded tightly in her lap to avoid her father’s sharp, penetrating gaze. “It’s true, Pa,” she said quickly. “I told Frankie I’d mop up the streets of Virginia City with him, if he didn’t help us out last night.”

“Did you now?” Francis queried, gazing over at Molly, surprised and bemused.

“Pa.” It was Colleen, still clad in robe and nightgown, returning with her mother’s smelling salts. She unscrewed the lid and held the dark brown vial to her father.

“Give your ma a good whiff, wouldja, Pumpkin? Two, if she needs it,” Francis instructed, as he rose from his seat on the footstool next to the sofa. “When your brother returns with the whiskey, make sure your ma gets a good healthy slug o’ that, too . . . AFTER she comes ‘round.”

“I will, Pa,” Colleen promised. “Where are you and Molly going?”

“To m’ study,” Francis said. “It seems Molly an’ I have a wee bit o’ talkin’ to do.”

Molly wordlessly followed her father out of the living room into the study, wondering if that cold, lead weight she felt in the pit of her stomach was the way a condemned man felt on that last walk to the gallows. “It could’ve been worse,” she mused in silence. “I might’ve had to confess all to MA, instead of Pa.”

Francis opened the door to his study, then stood aside, gesturing for Molly to enter. Molly swallowed, took a deep breath, and resolutely walked in with posture erect, chin up, and shoulders back.

“All right, Lass, perhaps y’ should start at the beginning,” Francis said, taking the chair next to his desk.

Molly took another deep breath, and told her father everything, beginning with her brother accidentally leaving the music box at the Silver Dollar, and finally ending with everyone, except herself being arrested and thrown into the Virginia City jail.

“So . . . how did Frankie get himself OUT of jail?” Francis asked.

“Mister Cartwright came and got everyone out,” Molly replied.

“ . . . and how much do I owe Mister Cartwright for bailin’ your brother outta the hoosegow?”

“Nothing, Pa,” Molly replied. “Fortunately, I had a bill of sale for the music box, so all the charges against Frankie, and everyone else were dropped.”

“That’s a mercy, anyway,” Francis said.

“Pa, Stacy, Joe, and Teresa were only trying to help Frankie and me,” Molly said earnestly. “Please don’t tell me I can’t be friends with Stacy anymore . . . please?”

Francis smiled. “I wouldn’t think of it, Lass,” he said.

“What about Ma?” Molly queried anxiously.

“I’ll handle your ma,” Francis promised. “The main thing is you and Frankie have your music box back, all charges have been dropped, and I assume the damages at the Silver Dollar have been paid for?”

“Yes, Sir,” Molly declared, with an emphatic nod of her head. She told her father about the reward money Stacy had earned when she sent the man cheating at cards crashing the bachelor party through the door.

Francis laughed. “That lass has Irish blood in her, make no mistake,” he said. “ONLY an Irishwoman could be so lucky.”

“Then Frankie and I aren’t in trouble?”

“Not with me,” Francis replied. “Your ma’ll be out to blister t’ hides off the pair of ya, no stoppin’ THAT, I’m afraid. But I can an’ do promise there’ll be no other punishment AND any member of the Cartwright family will always be welcome in my house.”

“Thanks, Pa,” Molly said. She impulsively slipped her arms around his neck and shoulders and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “I just hope Mister Cartwright will see things as you do, and will go easy on Stacy, Joe, and Teresa.”

“I’m sure he will, Lass,” Francis said, patting her hand reassuringly.

“He WAS awfully mad last night . . . . ”

“As I would have been, ‘til I’d had a chance t’ think things through,” Francis replied. “I think I can safely say this about Mister Cartwright. His sons and daughter respect him, an’ that’s as it should be, but they’re not afraid of him.”

Molly remembered how Stacy and Joe both confessed their own roles in last night’s happenings, but steadfastly refused to in anyway cast blame on anyone else, without any fear whatsoever even in the face of Ben Cartwright’s baleful glare and intense questioning. “I think you’re right, Pa,” she said slowly, thoughtfully.

“Of course I am,” Francis said, smiling. “NOW, why don’t you g’won upstairs and wrap that fine music box you an’ Frankie got for Colleen?”

“I will, Pa,” Molly said. She hugged him again, before leaving the study to run upstairs.

“All’s well that end’s well,” Francis sighed, rising from his chair. There would, of course be a few tense moments with his wife, but the worst of things now lay behind them. All that remained was to see his eldest daughter finally married to the man, to whom she had been engaged off and on for the past nine years, and enjoy himself at the reception to follow, with no more mischief, surprises, silliness, or shenanigans.

Francis O’Hanlan couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

Ben Cartwright drew the family buggy, occupied by himself, Stacy, and Teresa alongside the church. His three sons, Candy, and Hop Sing had accompanied on horseback. Despite their having arrived a full half hour before the scheduled start of the wedding, the church was already surrounded by a horde of people, standing upwards of ten to fifteen deep in places, all jostling about for the best spot to watch the arrival of the bride and her family.

“Good heavens! What a mob!” Stacy said, her eyes round with astonishment.

“Well, whaddya expect, Li’l Sister?” Hoss said with a grin. “It IS The Weddin’ of the Century, after all.”

“We’re, uuhh . . . starting to hold up traffic,” Adam observed, noting the single buckboard and two buggies stopped behind them.

“Looks like we’re going to have to leave our buggy and horses over at the livery stable,” Ben observed, noting that nearly every square inch of space in front of the church was already occupied by horses, saddled and hitched to buggies. “Hoss, why don’t you take Adam’s horse. He needs to get in there, seeing as how he’s best man.”

“Sure thing, Pa,” Hoss replied.

“Stacy and Teresa, I’ll let you out here, too. That way the two of you can g’won in and reserve our seats.”

Adam quickly dismounted, then passed the reins of Sport II over to the waiting hands of his brother, Hoss.

“Mister Cartwright, why don’t you and Hop Sing g’won and get out here, too with the la--- ” Candy flinched away from the dark glare Stacy leveled in his direction, “I MEAN the, uhh WOMEN!”

Stacy triumphantly nodded her approval.

“ . . . if Joe can take Thor, I can hitch Hop Sing’s horse to the back of the buggy and take them to the livery, too.”

Ben nodded in agreement.

Candy immediately dismounted and after passing Thor’s lead over to Joe, he took hold of the bridle, worn by the horse hitched to the buggy. Adam, meanwhile, gallantly helped his wife out, then watched as his father and Hop Sing climbed down.

“Be careful,” Ben exhorted his daughter, as he reached up to give her a hand in climbing down.

Stacy reached out and took hold of Ben’s extended hand. “Thanks, Pa,” she murmured gratefully. “I had no idea long skirts were potentially lethal.”

“Only when you’re not used to them, Stacy,” Teresa said with a smile.

“Sshhh! I don’t want Pa getting any ideas!”

“You boys hurry on back,” Ben said, addressing his two younger sons and Candy. “We’ll save you seats.”

“We’ll be back as soon as we can, Pa,” Joe promised.

“I swear . . . the size of that crowd around the church has grown in the few minutes we spent getting ourselves sorted out,” Adam noted.

“Mister Cartwright you want path clear to door?” Hop Sing offered. Though his tone was casual, there was a wild gleam in his dark eyes.

“No, thank you, Hop Sing. I think we can manage,” Ben said soberly.

Ben, Stacy, Adam, Teresa, and Hop Sing instinctively closed ranks as they approached the edge of the crowd thronging the door. Though the uninvited masses jockeyed and jostled each other for position, they politely parted as the Cartwrights approached, clearing a path to the open church door. All five gratefully nodded their thanks in passing.

Just inside the front door of the church, Blake Wilson, father of the groom, stood greeting the guests as they arrived. “Ben, glad you and your family could make it,” he greeted his old friend with a tired smile.

“We almost didn’t,” Ben quipped, as he and Blake shook hands. “That’s quite a mob outside.”

“ . . . and it’s growing by leaps and bounds every minute,” Blake sighed. “Erma’s fit to be tied! She wanted a solemn, dignified ceremony . . . as befits the weighty significance of the occasion.” The last sentence was uttered in a biting comic parody of Erma Blake’s way of speaking, when caught in the throes of righteous indignation.

Ben, Adam, and Stacy, who knew Erma Wilson well, laughed uproariously.

“The wedding won’t be very dignified without the best man in place,” Adam said as the laughter died down. “Mister Wilson, where can I find Matt?”

“He’s back in the sacristy,” Blake replied with a smile.

“Thank you. Now if you would all be so kind as to excuse me . . . . ”

“Adam?”

“Yes, Mister Wilson?”

“I’d be grateful if you’d . . . well, if you could get Matt to relax a little? You’d think the boy was about to go to his own execution t’ look at him. I haven’t seen him THIS tense since the day Erma told him she had signed him up for dance lessons when he was eleven years old.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Adam promised, before parting company.

“Mister Wilson, seeing as how this is The Wedding of the Century, some UNdignified hoopla’s to be expected, ” Teresa said, after Adam had left.

“True, Mrs. Cartwright, very true,” Blake agreed readily. He paused, just long enough to cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Just don’t utter that particular turn of phrase within my wife’s hearing. She becomes more explosively unstable than a barrel of nitroglycerin on a bumpy road full of potholes.”

“I’ll be sure to watch myself,” Teresa promised with a smile.

“Well, we’d better get you seated, while there’s still enough places for all of you to sit together,” Blake said. “We’re dwindling down to standing room only fast ‘n furious.”

“We need to save seats for Hoss, Joe, and Candy,” Ben said. “They’ve taken our horses on down to the livery.”

Blake nodded, then turned toward the open doorway between the narthex and the sanctuary, and beckoned to one of the ushers.

“Yes, Sir?” It was Dillon Grainger, one of Erma Wilson’s nephews. He was a tall, gangly young man, with an unruly carrot colored mop, and cheeks generously dotted with a veritable galaxy of fine reddish orange freckles.

“Would you please seat the Cartwrights?” Blake asked.

“Sure thing, Uncle Blake,” Dillon nodded. The boy turned expectantly toward Ben. “Bride’s side or groom’s side, Mister Cartwright?”

“Either side is fine, just so long as we can all sit together,” Ben replied.

Dillon gallantly offered his arm to Teresa. Ben and Stacy fell in step behind them, with Hop Sing bringing up the rear. Teresa stepped into the space between pews, and edged her way toward the far end, already occupied by Gretta and Giselle Wren. Stacy followed next, then Ben, and finally, Hop Sing. Hoss, Joe and Candy arrived a few minutes later. Joe took the seat beside his father, with Hoss on his other side. Hop Sing sat down beside Hoss, leaving Candy the end seat.

Ben, sandwiched between Joe and Stacy, inwardly flinched against the intense gaze of Myra Danvers, seated three rows directly behind them, next to her daughter Pruella. Macon Fitzhugh, his eyes glazed and bloodshot, his walk unsteady, nonetheless assisted two of the young ushers in the task of setting up additional chairs in the aisle alongside the pews.

“Pa, things are startin’ t’ get a mite too cozy f’r me,” Hoss remarked sotto voce, as the line of ten people, filling a pew meant to comfortably seat nine, squeezed together to make room for two more.

Apollo Nikolas and the Hurley family were seated three rows up from the back, on the groom’s side of the church. Harlan spotted Pruella, the grand and glorious love of his life almost immediately, seated on the other side of the room next to her mother. She wore a brilliant, daffodil yellow dress, with matching short waist jacket. The neckline of the dress and sleeves of the jacket were trimmed with white lace and faux pearls. Her hat, the same yellow as dress and jacket, was trimmed with a white ribbon, and dried flowers, hued in complimentary shades of white, yellow, and pink. She wore a pair of white cotton gloves, also trimmed with lace. Harlan gazed over at her appreciatively, noting how closely the dress molded her delightfully curvaceous figure. He established eye contact and smiled. She favored him with a look of pure disdain, then looked away with a subtle toss of her head.

The ushers were still laboring valiantly to squeeze arriving guests into what little seating space remained, when Clara Mudgely, the church organist arrived, clad in a gown of flowing pink organdy, and primly seated herself before the organ fifteen minutes before the wedding ceremony was scheduled to begin.

 

Outside, someone shouted, followed by another, then half a dozen. A brief time of silence ensued before the crowd outside began to cheer and whistle raucously.

Adam turned and looked outside though the open window in the church sacristy, where he and the groom waited for the start of the wedding. There, he saw the O’Hanlan Family making their way toward the open door of the church. Colleen, dressed in her mother’s long, flowing wedding gown, with gauzy veil covering her face, led the way clutching a large bouquet of white roses in one hand, and holding tight to her father’s arm with the other. Molly, the maid-of-honor, dutifully walked along behind her father and sister. Myrna O’Hanlan, weeping copious tears, and hanging on to her son, Frankie, to dear life, followed.

“Matt, the bride and her family’s just arrived,” Adam said, as he labored to tie the groom’s bow tie.

Matt exhaled a long, melancholy sigh.

“Matt, would you PLEASE hold still? And smile, for heaven’s sake! I’ve seen happier faces at funerals.”

“Adam . . . . ” Matt glanced over his shoulder, double-checking to make sure he and his best man were alone. “Adam, I . . . I’m not sure I, uhhh . . . really wanna go through with this.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little late now for second thoughts?”

“Yeah, I s’pose . . . . ”Matt sighed, “but . . . oh, I don’t know, I . . . I guess I kind of thought . . . well, with all the off and on, on and off again? I dunno, Adam. Maybe what I’m trying to say is . . . I didn’t honestly think things’d really . . . come this far?!”

“Matt, I think you’re more than likely suffering from severe case of the last minute jitters,” Adam said. “Two minutes before Teresa walked down the aisle, I starting shaking in my boots, LITERALLY, and I broke out in a cold sweat. It was all I could do to keep myself from running . . . it didn’t matter much where . . . just so long as it lay in the opposite direction of where I was.”

“ . . . a-and you still went through with it?”

“Yes, I went through with it. And I’ll tell you something else, too, Matt! I’ve never, EVER had cause to regret it.”

Matt sighed. “I wish I could be as sure as you are.”

“Once you get yourself out there, and you see Colleen coming down the aisle in her wedding dress, all the nervousness, and the second thoughts will vanish in an instant,” Adam promised, speaking with the quiet confident authority of one who knew. “You’ll feel a little silly for having had them in the first place, but very glad you didn’t act on them and bail out.”

Matt sighed again, unable to help but wonder IF what Adam had just said was true, then why, oh why, did he keep wishing with all his heart that the woman who would walk down the aisle in her wedding dress in a few moments was going to be Clarissa Starling?

Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt, resplendent in his clerical garb, entered the tiny room where Adam and Matt waited for the wedding to begin. “The bride’s family have arrived,” he announced blithely, “and they’re ready to begin.”

Matt could feel the blood draining from his face. His knees buckled.

Adam barely managed to grab him before he collapsed. “Steady, Matt,” he grunted, as he worked to steady the groom on his feet. “Another fifteen minutes or so, it’ll be all over.”

 

Out in the sanctuary, Dillon escorted the parents of the groom down the aisle, trying his best to project a solemn demeanor to please his aunt while desperately trying to maneuver around and past the people seated in the aisles.

“Dillon, for heaven’s sake STOP looking down at your feet,” Erma Wilson hissed, favoring her young nephew with a dark glare. “Straighten up. Look straight ahead in front of you.”

“But . . . . ”

“Do as I tell you,” she snapped.

Dillon pulled himself up to full height and stared resolutely up towards the altar at the front of the church. Three steps later, he tripped over a purse belonging to one Maybelle Higgs, seated primly in one of the chairs set up in the aisle. Dillon pitched forward, head first, with a strangled cry. He landed, sprawled across the aisle directly in front of his aunt. A smattering of muffled titters could be heard through out the congregation.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Erma muttered, her face red and ample bosom heaving against the rigid confines of her bodice. She stepped over her young nephew’s form, still lying in the aisle and made her way to her seat.

Blake Wilson, trying very hard not to smile himself, quickly pulled the boy to his feet and walked him to the pew, where Erma was already seated. She turned and glared daggers at her hapless young nephew as he sat down on the other side of her husband.

Frankie O’Hanlan followed next, escorting his mother to her place. Every eye in the room was on him, some fearing and others hoping that the O’Hanlan boy, well known for his clumsiness, was going to trip over something as Dillon had. Though Frankie visibly flinched against the intense scrutiny, and slouched more and more with each step, he successfully completed the walk down the aisle without taking a tumble. Erma Wilson, noting Frankie’s ever worsening posture sighed and buried her face in her hands. Myrna O’Hanlan, with tears streaming down her face, meekly followed as Frankie led. He made sure his mother sat down, before taking his place beside her, leaving the aisle seat for his father.

After the O’Hanlan mother and son were seated, Clara Mudgely began the strains of the wedding march. Reverend Hildebrandt stepped into the sanctuary, followed by Matt and Adam. Molly O’Hanlan walked down the aisle first, chin up, back straight, head held high, displaying all the attitude Stacy Cartwright had ever taught her over the years, and then some.

“Ok, Molly, way to go,” Stacy murmured sotto voce, as Molly walked by.

Colleen O’Hanlan, escorted by her father, followed her sister down the aisle. Francis O’Hanlan’s eyes shone with the glitter and sparkle of unshed tears. He nursed the fading remnants of a headache, due in small part to the liquid refreshments consumed at last night’s bachelor party and in very large part to his wife’s reaction upon learning that her younger children were partners in crime with the Cartwrights in the doings at the Silver Dollar.

“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation to join together this Man and this Woman in Holy Matrimony,” Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt, intoned the words of the marriage ceremony, “which is an honorable estate, instituted by God, signifying the mystical union between Christ and His Church, which holy estate Christ adorned and beatified with His presence and the first miracle He wrought in Cana of Galilee, and is commended of Saint Paul to be honorable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.”

He paused dramatically.

“Therefore,” Daniel continued, his voice booming out over the congregation, “if any man can show just cause, why this man and this woman may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now, or forever hold his peace.” #

“No!” A strangled sob came from the back of the room. Clarissa Starling rose, with tears streaming down her face. “I tried to keep silent,” she sobbed melodramatically, “but my conscience just won’t allow it.”

A shocked murmur rose from the large assembly, as all eyes, all faces turned toward the back of the room. Clarissa let out a loud wail of distress and buried her face in the lace handkerchief in her hand. Sally and Sam were both at her side at once.

“Young Lady,” Daniel said in a scathing tone, “WHAT is the meaning of this?”

“Y-you asked if anyone c-c-could show just cause as . . . as to why this m-man and th-this woman sh-should not be m-m-married,” Clarissa sobbed. “Well . . . I CAN!”

The murmuring rose steadily in volume, as people looked at one another in complete and utter bewilderment.

Ben rolled his eyes heavenward. “Joseph . . . Stacy . . . and YOU, Teresa . . . please tell me you don’t know what this is all about,” he murmured under his breath gazing from one to the other.

“Sure thing, Pa, because I have no idea in the world what this is all about,” Joe said, shrugging his shoulders helplessly.

“I think I can safely say I know as much about this as YOU do, Pa,” Stacy affirmed.

“Me, too, Ben,” Teresa said.

Ben exhaled a sigh of relief. The looks of shock and astonishment on their faces mirrored what he, himself, felt inside, and confirmed for him that the three of them were telling the truth.

At the front of the room, Reverend Hildebrandt raised his hands, calling for quiet. The murmuring gradually faded to silence.

“Alright, Young Lady, suppose you explain yourself,” the reverend said, leveling a disdainful glare in Clarissa’s direction.

Clarissa pulled herself up to full height, with posture erect, shoulders back, and chin up. “The reason this wedding should not t-take place is . . . . ” she paused for the maximum melodramatic effect, “I’m in the family way, and . . . and HE took me there!” She thrust her arm forward, her first finger unmistakably pointing toward the groom.

The bride seized her veil and flung it away from her face with a theatrical flourish. “MATTHEW WILSON, YOU . . . YOU . . . YOU NO GOOD, WORTHLESS PIECE OF GOBSHITE!” she howled at the top of her voice, with all the dramatic flair of a well-trained Shakespearian actress. “HOW COULD YOU?!”

“C-Colleen, I-I . . . she . . . I have n-no idea . . . . ” Matt stammered, his eyes round with shock and horror. “I . . . she . . . we, uuhh . . . . ”

“Sure! That’s what they ALL say!” Colleen balled her fist and belted him with a hard, solid right cross, knocking the hapless groom off his feet. He fell into the steadying arms of his best man. The bride glared at the groom for what seemed a tense eternity, then with an emphatic, disdainful toss of her head, she turned heel and fled up the aisle, leaving her father, and Molly, her maid of honor, staring after her in shocked horror.

“Magnificent!” Joe Cartwright murmured, gazing at Colleen O’Hanlan’s retreating form with a look of awe and great respect. “I wouldn’t mind marrying her myself.” He nearly jumped out of his skin when a large, muscular hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned and found himself staring into the stern face of his big brother.

“Don’t you even THINK about it, Li’l Brother,” Hoss warned.

“Excuse me, Jack . . . Athena,” Apollo murmured, as he carefully squeezed past his brother-in-law and sister. He was in the aisle, running after Colleen before either of the Hurleys could move, let alone think to question or stop him.

Hoss stood in his place, tightly sandwiched in between Joe and Hop Sing, watching his old friend making his way back up the aisle after the swiftly retreating bride. “I sure hope Apollo knows what he’s lettin’ himself in for,” he murmured very softly under his breath,

“What was that, Hoss?” Candy standing on the other side of Hop Sing looked over at his with a bewildered frown.

“Nothin’, Candy,” Hoss said too quickly. “Absolutely nothin’ at all!” He was greatly relieved when Candy simply shrugged his shoulders, and returned his attention to the front of the church.

“Adam, I . . . I . . . she and I . . . Cuh-Cuh-Cluh . . . C-Clarissa . . . we . . . . ” Matt desperately tried to appeal to his best man. “Adam, you’ve gotta BELIEVE me!”

“Matthew Wilson, so help me, as God is my witness, I’m gonna break every stinkin’ bone in your body,” Francis O’Hanlan, his face beet red with rage, moved toward the hapless groom.

“Buh-buh-buh-b-but I . . . . ”

“Easy, Matt, you’re starting to sound like a brooding hen,” Adam whispered, while laboring to support Matt, whose knees had suddenly turned to jelly.

Myrna O’Hanlan, standing before the front pew on the right side of the church sanctuary, moaned in anguish, then fainted, collapsing into the arms of her shocked son, Frankie, who stood next to her at the front pew. Matt Wilson fainted an instant later. Adam’s quick action prevented the groom from taking a bad fall to the floor.

“This is outrageous! Absolutely outrageous!” Erma Wilson, the mother of the groom, declared in a loud booming voice, her ample bosom heaving with righteous indignation. “That girl is lying! She has to be! MY Matt would NEVER . . . . ”

“Oh yes your Matt WOULD, y’ silly ol’ toad!” Sally Tyler yelled back in stolid defense of Clarissa. She moved toward the aisle, with every intention of marching right up to that snooty Erma Wilson and smacking that smug look off her face. Sam and Lotus O’Toole quickly moved to restrain her.

The murmuring escalated in volume directly proportional to the number of arguments breaking out among the congregation as people began to choose sides. Reverend Hildebrandt desperately tried to call for order. Sheriff Coffee, his face set with grim determination, pushed his way into the aisle, past a shoving match that had developed between Laurie Lee Bonner and Grace Hansen. He walked up the aisle, neatly side stepping Myra Danvers and Miss Brunhilda Odinsdottir, owner of Valhalla, a small but thriving and lucrative ranch south of Virginia City. The Widow Danvers and Miss Odinsdottir were involved in a heated verbal exchange well on its way toward degenerating into a brawl.

“Sheriff Coffee, DO something!” Daniel Hildebrandt ordered imperiously, as Roy mounted the three steps up to the church altar.

“Well, seein’ as how you’re askin’ so nicely . . . . ” Roy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He pursed his lips together and let out a loud, agonizingly shrill whistle, clearly heard above the escalating verbal din. All name-calling, innuendo, and arguments abruptly ceased. Everyone turned and gazed up at the reverend and sheriff expectantly. “They’re all yours, Reverend,” Roy said with a smile.

“I want to see the bride, the groom, their parents, and . . . . ” Daniel Hildebrandt glanced over at the angry contingent from the Silver Dollar Saloon, grimacing with obvious distaste, “ . . . and other interested parties in my office right now!” He turned to Roy Coffee with a scowl. “You’d better come along, too, Sheriff. Just in case things get ugly.”

“Reverend, that’s past tense,” Adam remarked with a wry smile, “as in things GOT ugly the minute Miss Starling made her announcement.”

Daniel shot Adam a murderous glare. “Bring him,” he ordered curtly, then strode off down the aisle, his robe, cassock and stole flapping vigorously in his wake.

Adam made eye contact with Hoss, and waved him over to help him carry the still unconscious groom. The former lifted Matt’s feet, while the latter took him by the shoulders.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this outrage, so help me!” Erma Wilson vehemently declared, her jaw taut with bullheaded determination. She strode down the aisle, following at the retreating reverend’s heels, her own face a mask of wrathful indignation and outrage. Adam and Hoss fell in step behind her, carrying Matt Wilson’s inert form between them.

Clarissa Starling, with handkerchief clutched in one hand and head held high, followed Adam and Hoss, with Sam, the bar tender, and Sally Tyler flanking her on either side. The angry scowls on their faces gave strong indication the pair of them were out for blood, specifically Matt Wilson’s.

Roy Coffee paused beside the pew occupied by Ben, Joe, Stacy, Teresa, Candy, and Hop Sing. “Ben, would you mind coming along?” he invited in a low voice. “I could sure use your help if things suddenly go to pot in a hand basket in the good reverend’s office.”

“Of course, Roy,” Ben immediately agreed. He fell in step beside the sheriff. Joe and Stacy quickly exchanged glances and nodded. Both of them slipped out of the pew and walked out behind their father before anyone could even think of stopping them.

“Frankie, you go find Colleen and tell her to meet us in the reverend’s office,” Francis O’Hanlan instructed his son curtly.

“Yes, Sir,” Frankie nodded and set off.

“Molly, you wait here.”

“Yes, Pa,” she nodded.

Francis O’Hanlan half-dragged, half-carried his semi-conscious wife up the aisle, bringing at the rear of the procession heading for a show down in the reverend’s office.

 

Ben paused for a moment at the door leading to Reverend Hildebrandt’s office. “Joseph . . . Stacy, I want the two of you to stay right here,” he abruptly turned and ordered his two younger children.

“But, Pa . . .. ” Stacy started to protest.

Ben favored them both with a glare that held all the promise of a trip to the woodshed, should either so much as sneeze.

“Yes, Sir,” Stacy and Joe immediately chorused in unison.

 

Ben followed Roy Coffee into the tiny, already crowded office of Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt. The clergyman, his face nearly purple with rage, stood next to his massive roll top desk, arms folded tightly across his chest, glaring at the growing assembly.

Erma Wilson stood on one side of the small room, her body stance echoing that of the reverend, glaring daggers at Sally Tyler, standing directly opposite. Sally’s hazel eyes, riveted to Erma’s angry face, burned with an all-consuming rage. Had it not been for Sam’s firm, restraining hands on her forearms, Sally and Erma would be locked in furious hand-to-hand combat.

Clarissa had taken up position a little behind Sally and Sam. She kept her face averted to the floor, with her handkerchief held firmly over her mouth.

Adam and Hoss stood together beside to the indignant mother of the groom, propping up the now semi-conscious Matt between them. Blake Wilson stood quietly on the other side to his wife, his own face averted to the floor, with hands clasped tight in front of him.

Francis O’Hanlan entered the room his lips thin with white-hot anger. He escorted his moaning wife over to the only chair in the room and gently placed her in it. “Colleen will be here directly,” he informed the others tersely. “I’ve sent my son to fetch her.”

“You’ve sent your SON to fetch her?” Erma Wilson rounded furiously upon the father-of-the bride. “Your son can’t find his scrawny rump with both hands!”

“It’s too bad t’ same can’t be said of YOUR son and his belt buckle, Madam,” Francis growled. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it were so.”

“My Matt would NEVER . . . . ” Erma sputtered. “Never!”

“ . . . and why NOT?!” Sally demanded. “He’s a typical red blooded American boy, ain’t he?”

Erma gasped, her face pale one minute and an odd shade of purple the next.

“Young Lady, you should never address your betters in such a disrespectful fashion,” Daniel Hildebrandt rebuked her imperiously.

“Then it’s a real good thing I AIN’T addressin’ my betters right now, ain’t it?!” Sally spat contemptuously.

“THAT does it!” Erma declared vehemently. She balled her fists, and moved across the room toward her antagonist with murderous fury in her eyes.

Hoss immediately thrust the entire weight of Matt Wilson’s still unconscious bulk over to Adam. Two quick strides brought him along side of Erma Wilson. “Ma’am,” he said touching her shoulder, “this ain’t gonna solve--- ”

Erma Wilson pivoted with astonishing swiftness given her ample bulk, and punched Hoss hard in the stomach.

“Lemme go, Sam,” Sally hissed.

“Sally, behave!” Sam admonished her with a stern glare.

“But, Sam . . . . ”

“All this senseless brawlin’ ain’t gonna solve nuthin’! Now either you behave y’rself, or so help me, I’ll dump Mrs. O’Hanlan right outta that chair and tie YOU up in it.”

Sally glared at Sam, but nodded curtly by way of agreement.

Ben Cartwright, his face grim, elbowed his way across the room toward his second son’s side. “Hoss? You alright?”

Hoss peered down into his father’s anxious face. “I . . . I can’t believe it, Pa,” his voice came in ragged gasps. “Mrs. Wilson danged near knocked the wind clear outta me. F’r such a li’l woman, she sure packs a wallop!”

“I want every last one o’ ya t’ simmer down right now!” Roy said sternly. “I’m givin’ t’ lot o’ ya TWO choices. Ya can discuss matters in a calm, civilized manner right here, or y’ c’n do it over in the Virginia City jail. Makes no never mind t’ me either way!”

“We demand satisfaction!” Sam said grimly. “Matt Wilson’s wronged Clarissa, an’ that’s the whole of it pure ‘n simple. He ought to be made to do the only honorable thing by her, today, right here and right NOW.”

“My son will marry that trollop when hell freezes over!” Erma Wilson declared in a loud booming voice. “He is engaged to Colleen O’Hanlan, he will MARRY Colleen O’Hanlan.”

“I wouldn’t let YOUR son come within a hundred yards o’ MY daughter let alone marry her even if hell DOES freeze over,” Francis O’Hanlan countered.

“Adam? What’s goin’ on?” Matt stirred with groan.

“It seems you’ve raised quite a furor,” Adam said, as he valiantly labored to steady Matt’s balance.

Matt glanced at Adam, with a blank, unknowing look on his face.

“Well, it seems Miss Clarissa Starling’s going to have a baby,” Adam cheerfully explained.

“She is?” Matt’s lower jaw tightened with anger. “That’s outrageous! Who’s the father?”

“YOU are,” Adam replied.

Matt moaned softly, and passed out again.

“Alright, Folks, we won’t solve anything by all this arguing amongst ourselves,” Daniel called for order, as Colleen and Apollo entered the office. “We’ll all say our piece one at a time--- ”

“As far as I’M concerned, there’s only one thing left to say at this point,” Francis O’Hanlan said, rudely cutting Daniel off mid-sentence. “The wedding is OFF.”

“I’m humiliated!” Myrna O’Hanlan bawled. “Absolutely humiliated!”

“I, however, am relieved,” Colleen declared imperiously. “Better I find out about Matt’s contribution to Miss Starling’s delicate condition NOW than after the ceremony.”

Myrna let out a loud, guttural wail and buried her face in her hands.

“Mister and Mrs. O’Hanlan, there’s no need for anyone to be humiliated today,” Apollo Nikolas said. “I’ve loved Colleen since . . . well, since we were fifteen years old. If she’ll have me, I would be honored to take Matt Wilson’s place as the groom right here and right now.”

“Yes, Apollo,” Colleen replied, as she threw her arms about his neck with a wild, passionate abandon. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”

Francis started over at his eldest daughter and Apollo through eyes round with utter disbelief. “C-Colleen . . . are you sure---!?”

“I’m sure, Pa,” Colleen declared with a brilliant, dazzling smile, “as sure as I’ve ever been of anything in my entire life.”

Myrna, eyes round with shock and face many shades paler than normal, looked over at Colleen and Apollo, now embracing each other like the proverbial long lost lovers, then over at her husband standing just behind them. “Francis, shu-shu-shu . . . surely . . . y-you’re n-not . . . ”

“Oh, yes, I am,” Francis wearily surrendered to the inevitable. “I know this is all very sudden, but if Colleen wants to marry Apollo, we’re not goin’ t’ stand in their way.”

“Speak for yourself, Francis!” Myrna growled.

“Myrna, if they want t’ marry, there’s nothin’ that CAN stop ‘em, not even t’ likes of a stampede with all t’ cattle from every single last ranch around,” Francis said gently. “Colleen ‘n Apollo ARE of age, an’ besides . . . everything’s already paid for.”

Myrna moaned softly.

Ben immediately caught the knowing smile of pure contentment on his second son’s face. “Hoss?”

“ . . . uuuhh oohhhm I, ummm . . . I m-mean . . . y-yeah, Pa?” Hoss stammered. The contented smile immediate vanished into the same stricken wide-eyed, pale face Ben remembered seeing when, as a boy, this middle of his was caught red handed with his arm deep in the cookie jar.

“Son . . . what do YOU know about all this?” Ben asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“ . . . uhhh . . . uh-b-bout . . . what?” Hoss asked, as tiny beads of sweat began to dot his brow. With trembling hand, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a clean handkerchief.

“What do you know about Miss Starling . . . and about your friends, Colleen and Apollo?” Ben rephrased his question.

“I, uhhh . . . Pa, I got no idea . . . n-none in t’ whole wide world . . . WHAT you’re talking about.” Hoss very quickly and very pointedly averted his face and eyes toward the floor.

“Hoss . . . . ” Ben growled in a low, almost menacing tone, his scowl deepening.

Hoss sighed. Two irregularly shaped patches of bright scarlet, appeared on his cheeks, standing out in startling contrast against his sickly, ashen gray complexion. “C-Can we, ummm . . . talk about this later?” he asked, finally accepting the inevitable.

“You can count on it,” Ben promised.

Clarissa, meanwhile, moved out from behind Sam and Sally. She crossed the room, pausing briefly to cast a withering glare at Erma, and took up position before Matt, once again regaining consciousness. “I must confess . . . in spite of all the times he’s broken up with me and gone back to Colleen, I . . . well, I still love Matt . . . with all my heart,” she said, her own smile every bit as dazzling as Colleen’s. “Matt Darling, will you marry me?”

“C-Clarissa?” Matt groaned.

“Yes, Matt, it’s me,” she said softly, cupping his face gently in her hands. “Seeing as how Colleen’s going to marry Apollo Nikolas . . . will you marry ME? We can make this a double wedding.”

“Yes,” Matt sighed, gazing up at her through adoring, calf-like eyes.

“Oh NO!” Erma protested. “No, no, no, no, NO! I will not permit MY son to--- ”

“Save your breath, Erma. The boy’s of age . . . HAS been for quite a while now,” Blake hastened to point out. “He’s free t’ marry whom ever he dang well likes, whether YOU permit it or not.”

“Blaaaaa-aaake . . . . ” Erma wailed, her eye round with horror.

Blake Wilson silenced his wife with a curt gesture. “Reverend Hildebrandt . . . if Matt ‘n Miss Starling truly want to make this a double wedding, his ma ‘n I won’t stand in the way, either.” He looked over at his wife with the most ferocious glare he could muster. “Will we, Dear?”

For perhaps the first time in her life, Erma Wilson found herself at a complete loss for words. She sighed and shook her head.

“ . . . and if Clarissa wants to marry Matt, all of us at the Silver Dollar stand behind her,” Sam said smiling.

“Looks to me like everything’s settled,” Ben said, feeling dazed and disoriented, like he had just awoken from a very vivid, surreal dream.

“Yes, it would . . . s-seem so,” Daniel agreed, looking equally perplexed and uncertain.

“Hoss, will you be my best man?” Apollo asked, as the assembly slowly moved toward the fast closed door.

“I’d be proud to,” Hoss agreed with a smug, self-satisfied grin.

 

“They’re coming!” Joe whispered. “Away from the door, Kid, and act casual.”

Stacy and Joe Cartwright moved away from the door, a split second before it opened, and everyone inside began to file out, shaking their heads and muttering amongst themselves. Ben Cartwright’s two youngest children stood side by side, with Joe gazing up at the ceiling and Stacy fixing her gaze on the floor. Both had their arms folded across their chests, and their backs pointedly toward the door to the reverend’s office.

“I’d tell the two of you the Wedding of the Century’s just turned into the DOUBLE Wedding of the Century, if you didn’t already know,” Ben said, placing his arms affectionately about their shoulders.

“Well . . . Stacy and I . . . we, ummm . . . couldn’t help but overhear a few things . . . here and there,” Joe said, his tone a bit too nonchalant.

“Of course not, Son,” Ben said casually, “especially when you and your sister have your ears plastered to the door.”

“Pa, how did you---!?” Stacy began. Her words ended abruptly with a startled gasp, upon catching sight of the dark, murderous scowl Joe leveled in her direction.

“I know the pair of YOU,” Ben said firmly. “Now let’s go. We have a wedding, no! Make that TWO weddings! . . . to attend.”

 

“Dearly . . . Beloved. We are gathered here in the sight of God to see this man . . . uhhh MEN! To see these MEN Apollo Nikolas and Matthew Wilson, respectively joined in holy matrimony to this . . . THESE. Women. Colleen O’Hanlan and Clarissa Starling,” Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt continued with the words of the traditional wedding ceremony, still stunned and shaken by the recent chain of events.

The two couples stood side by side facing the altar, all four of their faces beaming with sublime happiness.

“Who gives this woman, Colleen Bridget O’Hanlan, to be married?”

“H-her mother and I do,” Francis O’Hanlan said. Myrna moaned softly, as her eyes rolled up under her eyelids. She wavered, then collapsed once more into the arms of her astonished son.

“ . . . and who gives THIS woman, Clarissa Margaret Starling, to be married?”

“I do,” Sam immediately spoke up, proudly grinning from ear to ear, “ . . . an’ . . . an’ so does the rest o’ her family at the Silver Dollar.”

Francis O’Hanlan carefully lifted the veil covering his eldest daughter’s face. “I love you, Colleen,” he whispered, then tenderly kissed her forehead. He then, took her hand and gently placed it in Apollo’s. “You better take real good care o’ her, Son, or y’ll answer to me.”

“I will, Sir,” Apollo whispered back, his eyes blinking excessively.

While Francis O’Hanlan returned to his place beside his insensate wife and stricken son, Sam took Clarissa’s hand and placed it in Matthew’s. “All the best, Clarissa, I’m really happy for you,” his voice caught on the last word. “I only wish your pa could’ve been here.”

“They’re BOTH here, Sam,” Clarissa whispered back. “I sense the presence of my first pa and my second . . . YOU . . . happens to be standing right in front of me.” She turned, and gently kissed his cheek. “Thank YOU, Sam . . . thank you for everything.”

Sam hugged Clarissa, then kissed her forehead, before placing her hand in Matt’s.

Adam Cartwright and Sally Tyler, best man and matron of honor for Matthew Wilson and Clarissa Starling moved from their places behind the couple, as Sam returned to his place next to Sally Tyler. Molly O’Hanlan, serving as maid of honor for her sister Colleen, and Hoss Cartwright, also moved into place.

Daniel Hildebrandt closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath in a desperate attempt to begin composing himself. “Do you . . . Colleen O’Hanlan . . . do you . . . do you, umm do you . . . . ”

The minister’s eyes dropped to the open book lying cradled in his hands as the words of the wedding ceremony, words he had long ago committed to memory, suddenly deserted him. For a long moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, he frantically searched for his place amid the printed words through eyes round with horror and dread.

“ . . . ummm yes. Do you, Colleen O’Hanlan take this man Apollo Nikolas to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold . . . . ”

The good reverend entered into the slow process of recovering a measure of the composure and dignity, lost amid the debacle in his office just a short while ago. Solemn words long ago remembered, also returned. As he sat, bearing silent witness to the vows exchanged between the two couples standing at the front of the church, Ben found his thoughts drifting to the moments he, himself made those same vows and promises to Elizabeth Stoddard, Inger Borgstrom, and Marie di Marigny. He also remembered Paris McKenna, the fourth woman to whom he would have spoken those words, had fate been kinder. Joe and Stacy, seated on either side, saw that their father’s eyes blinked to excess. Ben smiled amid the tears stinging his eyes upon feeling Joe’s fingers gently wrapping around one hand, and both of Stacy’s hands sandwiching his other between them.

“Apollo and Colleen . . . Matthew and Clarissa . . . I now pronounce you respectively husband and wife,” the minister finally declared with a weary smile. “Gentlemen, you may now kiss your brides.”

Apollo and Matthew both caught their new wives up in their arms and kissed them soundly.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the minister said, “it is my pleasure to introduce for the first time Mister and Mrs. Apollo Nikolas and Mister and Mrs. Matthew Wilson.”

Clara Mudgely immediately began to play a triumphant recessional. Colleen and Apollo, hand in hand, led the way, with Matthew and Clarissa following close at their heels. Hoss and Molly followed next, with Adam and Sally Tyler bringing up the rear.

The congregation rose, after both newly wed couples had recessed back up the aisle, with their attendants following. Joe Cartwright turned to his sister, smiling broadly. “Well whaddya know? You called it, Little Sister! You actually called it!” he proclaimed proudly, in complete oblivion to the look of wild panic on Stacy’s face and her frantic gestures for him to button his lips.

“Called WHAT, Joseph?” Ben demanded, eyeing his younger children with increasing suspicion and dread.

“The double wedding, Pa,” Joe cheerfully rambled on. “I’ll bet she’s the only one in town who bet money that the Wedding of the Century would--- ” His steady stream of chatter came to an abrupt halt upon catching a good close look at the indignant scowl in his father’s face and the fatalistic resignation on his sister’s. “Oops!”

“Nice goin’, Grandpa,” Stacy hissed between clenched teeth.

“Sorry,” Joe whispered back.

“You WILL be,” Stacy assured him.

Joe looked from Stacy, to his father, and back once again to his sister. “Am I, ummm . . . right in assuming that Stacy and I . . . that we’re in trouble . . . again?” he asked.

“Right on all counts, Son,” Ben said sternly. “However, I MAY be inclined toward leniency on ONE condition.”

“W-what’s that, Pa?” Stacy asked.

“That the pair of you tell me the truth,” Ben said firmly, “and by that I mean the whole, complete, unvarnished truth, with none of your usual creative liberties. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-Yes, Pa,” Stacy gulped.

“Perfectly clear,” Joe murmured, while vigorously nodding his head.

Ben glared at both of them for emphatic good measure. “First question. Are there any more surprises?”

“No,” Stacy immediately replied.

“Leastwise none, that WE know of,” Joe added.

 

“Congratulations, Apollo, an’ welcome to the ranks o’ us landlubbers,” Hoss, grinning from ear to ear, turned and shook hands with the once and former seaman, the instant the two newly wed couples and their attendants stepped into the church narthex.

“Thanks, Hoss,” Apollo said, his facial expression a curious mixture of shock, relief, bewilderment, and a sublime happiness, that seemed to permeate his entire being. “ . . . and thank you, thank you, thank you, Old Friend, for standing up with me at the last minute.”

“Proud t’ do it, Apollo.”

Sally and Clarissa, both weeping tears of happiness, hugged and held on to one another.

“Oh, S-Sally,” Clarissa said, her voice breaking, “I . . . I can’t even begin to thank you for . . . for everything you’ve done, since I started work at the Silver Dollar.”

“Seein’ you ‘n Matt together, and the happiness on your face right now . . . that’s thanks a plenty for ME!” Sally said, with a warm, if tremulous smile, and tears cascading freely down her cheeks.

“Congratulations, Matt,” Adam, smiling broadly, took Matt’s hand and shook it heartily. “You certainly made a rapid recovery from those wedding day jitters after Clarissa asked you to marry her.”

“Y-yeah, I guess I did, didn’t I?” Matt stammered, his face still pale, his eyes round with shock and happy disbelief. “Adam . . . d-do me a favor?”

“Sure, Matt.”

“Please . . . whatever you do . . . DON’T pinch me. If I’m dreaming all this, I sure as shootin’ don’t wanna wake up.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Adam said, with a smile that lit up his entire face. “I can see by the look on BOTH your faces, that you and Clarissa are going to be every bit as happy as Teresa and I are.”

“Thanks, Adam,” Matt said smiling.

“Oh, Colleen, I wish you and Apollo the best,” Molly declared, as she threw her arms around her older sister with wild, joyous abandon.

 

“Honest, Pa! I had no idea the Wedding of the Century was going to be a double wedding,” Stacy passionately declared, “not until I overheard you say so while I, umm . . . h-had my ear plastered to the, ummm . . . door to the reverend’s office?!”

“Then how did you know to place a bet on it?” Ben demanded.

“It . . . just . . . seemed to be the right thing to do at the time, I guess,” Stacy replied, with a helpless shrug of her shoulders. “But, I SWEAR . . . I’ll swear on a whole stack of Bibles if you want me to . . . I had absolutely no idea that what just happened was really going to happen.”

Ben shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he sighed.

“Then . . . you believe me?” Stacy squeaked as wave upon wave upon wave of relief swept over her, leaving her feeling a bit light headed.

“Yes, I do,” Ben said earnestly. “Stacy, I’m sorry I--- ”

“You don’t have to apologize for thinking I might’ve arranged this, Pa,” Stacy said, as she grabbed hold of the back of the pew in front of her, in order to steady herself. “I’m thinking I oughtta take it as a compliment.”

“A compliment?!” Ben looked over at his daughter as if she had suddenly turned into a prime candidate for a butterfly net and straight jacket.

“Think about it, Pa . . . if someone DID mastermind all this . . . it was a stroke of pure genius,” Stacy said with a big smile. “It gives me a nice warm feeling right here . . . . ” she gently touched the place right over her heart, “that you’d actually think I was smart enough to pull something like that off.”

“Stacy, I knew early on that you’re capable of doing anything you set your mind to doing,” Ben said as he placed his arm around her shoulder and gently squeezed.

“Hey, Pa, you comin’ to the reception?” It was Hoss.

“Yes, Son, we’re coming,” Ben said.

“I dunno what all you were talkin’ about just now, but whatever it was . . . it couldn’t have been anything good, goin’ by the look on your faces a minute ago,” Hoss remarked, as Ben rose from the pew on which he, Joe, and Stacy were sitting.

“I was just trying to tie up a few dangling loose ends,” Ben said, with a meaningful glance at his two younger children.

“Stacy Cartwright, there you are!” It was Mick O’Flynn, grinning from ear to ear. “I must say you pulled it off magnificently! Genius! Nothing less than pure, unbridled genius!”

“I didn’t have a blamed thing to do with this . . . except for placing that bet!” Stacy zealously maintained, afraid now to look over at her father. “It was a lucky guess, Mister O’Flynn, nothing more!”

“You’re too modest, Lass,” Mick said.

“My daughter’s absolutely right when she says she made a lucky guess,” Ben said quietly. “She had nothing at all to do with making it happen.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say THAT, Pa,” Hoss said blithely.

“Oh, no! I’m doomed!” Stacy groaned. “Thanks a lot, Big Brother!”

“All right, Hoss, let’s have it,” Ben turned his attention on his middle son. “What did Stacy have to do with . . . with whatever plot was afoot to bring about this double wedding?”

“She didn’t have anything to do with it, Pa,” Hoss said flinching against the intensity of his father’s glare, now turned upon him full force. “Leastwise not directly . . . . ”

“What do you mean by not directly?” Ben demanded.

“I m-mean Stacy . . . aww, Pa . . . she just gave me the idea ‘s all . . . . ”

“I was wrong! I’m not doomed . . . I’m DEAD!” Stacy sighed, resigning herself with a fatalistic aplomb to the prospect of having no allowance and being restricted to house and yard for the rest of her entire, natural life.

“Pa, Stacy didn’t give me the idea by tellin’ me,” Hoss continued, his eyes nervously darting back and forth between the faces of his sister and father. “I just happened to see a page in Mister O’Flynn’s accountin’ book when he dropped it at the Silver Dollar night ‘fore last. Stacy’s bet was there, right under Joe’s. THAT’S where I got the idea.”

“ . . .and that’s where . . . YOU . . . got the idea to . . . to s-set in motion the plot to . . . to make this a double wedding?!” Ben queried, his voice filled with an odd mixture of bewilderment and a new, grudging respect for his middle son.

“Maybe I oughtta start at the beginning?” Hoss offered.

“That would be an excellent idea, Son,” Ben agreed.

Hoss took a deep breath, and nervously related all that had transpired since his meeting with Apollo Nikolas at Doctor Martin’s office and the former seaman’s ardent declaration of love for the former Colleen O’Hanlan. “That’s all of it, Pa,” he concluded, looking mildly ill.

“What a beautiful, beautiful story,” Mick O’Flynn murmured, his voice unsteady. He removed a wrinkled white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “The path of true love never runs smooth, but y’ did your part to make it run true for the two couples that got married just now. Someday, Mister Cartwright, you just mark my words now, but someday . . . long after you’re dead of course, T’ Pope’s gonna canonize y’ SAINT Hoss . . . patron o’ hopeless romantics every where.”

“Well now, I, ummm . . . dunno ‘bout THAT,” Hoss said, as a big red splotch blossomed on each cheek.

“ . . . an’ Stacy, m’ girl, YOU are still t’ proud winner of five thousand dollars,” Mick O’Flynn said, handing her a large envelope, stuffed full.

“That much?!” Stacy’s face paled noticeably. She stared down at the envelope in her hands through eyes round with shocked amazement.

“Aren’t y’ goin’ to count it?” Mick asked.

“Maybe, Mister O’Flynn, right after I . . . I faint,” Stacy said, reaching for the edge of the nearest pew for support.

“We don’t need to count it, Mister O’Flynn,” Ben said, easing his daughter into the seat of the pew behind her. “I think we can trust you.”

“Trust ME? Now THAT’S peculiar turn uva phrase I’ve not heard applied t’ m’self in a long time,” Mick murmured with a nostalgic smile. “I’ll see you at the reception.”

“You can count on it, Mister O’Flynn,” Joe called after him.

“Do I, uuhh . . . get to keep the money?” Stacy asked, after Mick O’Flynn left.

“You won the money fair and square,” Ben said thoughtfully, “and the single dollar you bet WAS certainly well within your means. However . . . . ”

“However . . . what, Pa?”

“It goes into a trust account that you and I are going to set up in your name at the bank first thing Monday morning,” Ben said firmly.

“I can live with that,” Stacy agreed. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Would you mind holding on to this envelope for safe keeping while we’re at the reception? I didn’t even think to ask Madame Darnier about pockets.”

“I would be more than happy to hold on to your money for safe keeping,” Ben agreed, accepting the envelope. He tucked the envelope securely into the inside pocket of his jacket, then turned his attention back to Hoss, Joe, and Stacy. “Shall we go downstairs to the reception?”

“I’m ready,” Hoss replied, eagerly anticipating a taste of the wedding cake.

 

“There y’ are!” Francis O’Hanlan greeted the arriving Cartwright clan with a big smile. “An’ here I was thinkin’ t’ whole lot o’ ya’d skipped out on comin’ to t’ party!”

“Us? Skip out on a party?!” Joe echoed incredulously. “Not on your life, Mister O’Hanlan!”

“Joe’s absolutely right! We wouldn’t have missed this for the world!” Ben declared, returning Francis’ smile and extending his hand. “Congratulations on your daughter’s marriage, Francis.”

“Thank you most kindly, Ben,” Francis replied, as they two men shook hands. “It was a wee bit of a surprise as to t’ way things worked out, but in retrospect, I think it all worked out f’r t’ best.”

“I can’t agree with ya more, Mister O’Hanlan,” Hoss declared with a broad grin. “As a man of our acquaintance just said, the path o’ true love never runs smooth, but it sure as shootin’ ran true f’r Colleen ‘n Apollo, an’ Clarissa ‘n Matt.”

“Aye, indeed, it did, Hoss, indeed it did,” Francis agreed.

“Stacy, you look gorgeous in that dress!” Molly declared, as she and the Cartwright daughter linked arms and moved off toward the punch table together.

“So do you!” Stacy declared smiling.

“It’s all attitude,” Molly declared proudly.

“On you, Molly O’Hanlan, attitude looks good.”

“ . . . and on YOU a dress looks good,” Molly observed with a smile. “You ought to try wearing one more often.”

Stacy paused mid-stride, and cast a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder. “Don’t you DARE say that where Pa can hear you,” she said sotto voce. “I don’t want him to start getting ideas.”

“About what, Little Sister?” It was Joe, clad in the much-maligned blue suit, a freshly laundered and starched pristine white shirt, and tie. He had a full punch cup in one hand and a hand full of nuts and mints in the other.

“About Stacy wearing a dress more often,” Molly said, before Stacy could make a move to shush her.

“Molly, I think that’s a WONDERFUL idea,” Joe declared with an impish grin.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Molly said, favoring him with a bright, dazzling smile.

Stacy looked from Molly over to her brother, then back again to Molly, wondering if this was how an animal, ANY animal, felt just after the trap door banged shut.

“ . . . and you can rest assured that I’m gonna pass your suggestion on to Pa at the earliest opportunity.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can talk you out of it . . . is there, Grandpa?”

“Not a chance, Kiddo!” Joe resolutely shook his head, taking positive delight in his sister’s discomfiture.

“Then we’d best fetch down the organ grinder from the attic,” Stacy sighed.

“Organ grinder?!” Joe echoed. “Why in the world should we fetch that dusty ol’ thing down?”

“You heard what Hop Sing said yesterday when we were all at Madame Darnier’s,” Stacy said with a sly grin.

“What did he say? Refresh my memory!”

“ ‘Refresh my memory . . . . ’ WHAT?!”

“Alright!” Joe growled through clenched teeth. “Refresh my memory PLEASE!”

Molly, seized by an overwhelming urge to giggle, clapped her hand over her mouth and turned her back on the younger Cartwright offspring.

“Hop Sing said that if I can look this pretty, the least YOU could do is wear that MONKEY suit of yours,” Stacy cheerfully filled in her brother’s memory lapse, “WITH TIE!.”

“Hmpf! Ten’ll getcha one Hop Sing’s forgotten he ever said that!”

“I’LL remind him.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“If STACY doesn’t, I sure will,” Molly said, turning once again to face her friends.

“Now just a cotton pickin’ minute here!” Joe immediately turned and glared down at Molly. “I thought you were on MY side.”

“Nope,” Molly resolutely shook her head, “I’m on MY side.” She looked from one to the other smiling. “Stacy, I think YOU look very lovely in that dress . . . and Joe, YOU look positively handsome in that suit. Now, if you’ll BOTH excuse me, I think I’ll go have a nice friendly chat with your pa AND with Hop Sing.” With that, she flounced off with a skip in her step and a triumphant smile on her face.

“We’re dead!” Stacy sighed with melodramatic despair.

“Yep! Hoist by your own petard, Kid!”

Stacy turned and glared at her brother. “Now what’s THAT supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“It means this is all YOUR fault!”

“MY fault?!”

“You’re the one who taught Molly all about attitude, aren’t you?”

 

Adam listened to the exchange between his youngest brother and sister with an amused, self-satisfied smile.

“ . . . and what, may I ask are YOU so happy about, O Love of My Life?” Teresa asked. demurely, as she sidled up beside him and took his arm.

“Seeing Little Joe over there FINALLY getting his comeuppance for all the merciless teasing he heaped on Hoss and me while we were all growing up,” Adam replied. “That sister of mine can not only take it and still come up smiling, but she can sling it right back at him quicker than the fastest gun west of the Mississippi.” There was a distinct note of smug satisfaction in his voice.

“Quicker than the fastest gun EAST of the Mississippi, too, I’m sure,” Teresa said smiling, “and those two LOVE every minute of it.” She fell silent for a moment to cast a critical once over glance at the foundation cream and powder, she had so carefully applied to her husband’s cheeks and eyes. It held up well enough through the wedding, but was now dry, cracked, and flaking. “Adam, I think you need a little retouching.”

“Don’t bother,” Adam wearily shook his head. “I looked presentable enough for the wedding, at least from a distance anyway. THAT was the important thing.”

“True enough.”

“So what happened to the lot of you? It sure took you long enough to get down here.”

“Well, it, uummm, seems Joe, Stacy . . . AND Hoss had a bit of explaining to do.”

“Oh?”

Teresa nodded.

“I’m beginning to get the distinct feeling that Joe and Stacy, at least, spend a lot of time explaining their way out of one scrape or another . . . . ” Adam mused, with an amused half smile.

“NOT unlike their oldest brother at their age, I’m sure.”

“Pa been telling you more tall tales about my childhood?” Adam queried archly, as they strolled arm-in-arm over to the food table.

“No, I’m remembering all the ALLEGED tall tales he told me back when we all first met about a week before OUR wedding.”

“So . . . what did my younger brothers and sister do NOW?”

“For openers, Stacy just won five thousand dollars betting that the wedding today would turn out to be a double wedding, with Colleen marrying Apollo and Matt marrying Clarissa,” Teresa began.

“Don’t tell me that kid actually orchestrated this comedy or errors!”

“No, Adam, all she did was make a very lucky guess and place a bet on it.”

Adam looked over at his wife, openly skeptical.

“Honest!” Teresa insisted.

“Surely you don’t mean to tell me that what happened today was mere happenstance,” Adam immediately protested.

“Not at all,” Teresa replied. “I’m just saying that Stacy wasn’t the mastermind behind it.”

“You mean Joe . . . ?!”

“You’re half right, Adam. Your brother WAS the genius responsible for arranging everything that happened upstairs, but it wasn’t your YOUNGEST brother!”

“NOW you’re pulling my leg!” Adam chuckled.

“Nope!”

“Come ON, Teresa!” Adam argued. “You surely don’t mean to suggest that HOSS was the guilty party responsible for orchestrating this burlesque?”

“I wasn’t about to SUGGEST anything of the sort,” Teresa retorted primly. “I was getting ready to just say it straight out!”

“You’re NOT serious!”

“I’m DEAD serious.”

For one brief, horrifying, heart-stopping moment, Adam teetered on the edge of fainting right there on the spot.

“Adam?” Teresa gazed up into his suddenly pale complexion with concern. “Adam . . . are you alright?”

Adam slipped an arm about his wife’s shoulders and leaned against her just long enough to regain his equilibrium. “Let me m-make sure I’ve got this straight! You’re actually telling me . . . that . . . that H-Hoss . . . . ?”

“Um hmmm!” Teresa nodded.

Adam looked over at his biggest brother, who stood chatting animatedly with Sheriff Coffee and Brunhilda Odinsdottir in the line at the food table, with a newfound respect. “When we were growing up, Joe and I used to leave poor Hoss high and dry, holding the bag lots of times, because the poor guy couldn’t even tell the truth with a straight face,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “To think HE’S the genius who orchestrated this . . . this FARCE of a double wedding without anyone catching wise before hand . . . . Well, it just boggles the mind.”

 

“Ben, t’ boys in t’ band’ll be tunin’ up t’ play some right fine dancin’ music in a little while,” Francis said. “In t’ meantime, y’d better step up an’ help y’rself to some o’ this good food t’ Ladies’ Guild went t’ all t’ trouble o’ fixin’.”

“Now that you mention, Francis, I AM hungry as a bear,” Ben admitted.

“I DO hope you’ll save the first dance for me, Mister Cartwright,” Myra Danvers sidled up to the clan patriarch with a coy smile.

Ben blanched, and involuntarily took a step backward.

“Sorry, Mrs. Danvers,” Stacy appeared on the other side of her father, as if by magic. She casually, yet with a definite proprietary manner, slipped her arm through his. “Pa’s already promised ALL of his dances to ME, with maybe one or two to spare for Teresa.”

“Yes, that’s absolutely right, Mrs. Danvers!” Ben said, greatly relieved by Stacy’s timely rescue. “Between my daughter AND my daughter-in-law, I’m stretched pretty thin.”

“I see.” Myra’s coy smile froze, and turned brittle.

“Maybe another time,” Ben suggested, with the same unbounded enthusiasm he might feel at the prospect of spending the night in the den of a hundred rattlesnakes.

“ . . . like when a certain place famous for hot temperatures experiences a sudden freeze,” Stacy added with a smile.

“Yes,” Myra said through clenched teeth, glaring daggers, dripping with the deadliest of poisons, at the audacious Cartwright daughter, “ANOTHER time.” She abruptly turned heel and stomped off.

“You’d have thought she would have taken a hint after the way you bawled her out at the courthouse a couple o’ weeks ago,” Stacy murmured softly, shaking her head.

“When that woman gets an idea in her head . . . there’s no changing it,” Ben grumbled, as he and Stacy picked up plates and made their way through the food line.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing, Pa,” Stacy agreed earnestly, directing a ferocious glare at Myra Danvers’ retreating back. “I’ll protect you from her evil clutches.”

Ben smiled. “I feel safer already, knowing I’m under the protection of Lady Stacy, Fighting Irish Knight Errant,” he said partly in jest, mostly in earnest. “Just promise me you won’t skewer the dastardly Mrs. Danvers with the business end of your sword or lance.”

“I promise.” Stacy smiled, then sobered. “Unless I have to in self defense.”

 

“Oh, Pruella, that pearl necklace is gorgeous!” Grace Hansen sighed enviously. “Absolutely gorgeous!”

“Isn’t it, though?” Pruella agreed with a smug, self-satisfied smile. “See? Each and every one is perfectly matched, all the same roundness, the same color and luminescence . . . . ”

“It must have cost a fortune!” Grace exclaimed, her initial envy mixing now with a healthy dose of awe.

“It did!” Pruella boasted. “I saw another one just like it at the jeweler’s myself not two weeks ago, and inquired as to the price . . . a simple matter of intellectual curiosity, of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Guess how much?”

“Oh, I couldn’t even begin!”

Pruella leaned over and whispered in Grace’s ear.

Grace Hansen’s eyes went round with shock and astonishment. “Wow! THAT much?” she gasped. “And you say it’s the gift of an ADMIRER?!”

“Yep!”

“I wish I had so ardent an admirer,” Grace sighed, suddenly feeling very much the Plain-Jane next to Pruella’s fashionable flamboyance. “Those earrings you’re wearing are lovely, too. Are they ALSO a gift from your admirer?”

Pruella nodded, with a dazzling, triumphant smile. “Diamonds, Grace! Crystal clear, flawless, and all of FIFTEEN karats.”

 

Myra Danvers stormed into the kitchen, her face pale and lips thinned to a poker straight, hard, nearly lipless line. “Disgraceful!” she growled. “Absolutely dis-GRACE-ful!”

Florence Hansen, hard at work filling the half dozen nut and mint bowls, all lined up before her on the counter, flinched and quickly averted her eyes away from the intense glare on Myra Danvers’ cadaverously white face.

“Well, don’t YOU think so?” Myra snapped.

“I-if you say so,” Florence replied in a very small, very quiet voice. She kept her eyes firmly riveted to the bowl of nuts she was filling.

“That . . . that child is an absolute hoyden!” Myra ranted. “If Ben Cartwright doesn’t take her firmly in hand and SOON . . . . ”

Florence glanced up sharply, her beet red face an almost caricatured mask of horrified shock. “Ssshh, Myra, they’ll hear you!”

“It would be best for all concerned if they DID hear me!” Myra made a point of raising her voice. “You know as well as I do, that young lady has no idea in the world how to behave properly! None at all! What she desperately needs is two, maybe even THREE years in a good, solid girls’ boarding school to learn at least a modicum of the proper social graces, followed by another year at finishing school . . . . ”

Florence Hansen turned a deaf ear to Myra Danvers’ angry ranting and returned to the task of filling the nut bowls. “Odd,” she mused in silence. The Stacy Cartwright SHE had come to know over the years was a very polite, well mannered young woman, gifted with a poise and self-confidence rarely seen in girls her age. Granted, the girl preferred working with the Ponderosa horses to giving tea parties, but that was the way of things in this part of the country. Although her eldest daughter, Grace, was more than content to help with the household chores, the other four roped cattle and branded calves right alongside their father.

“Did you know that mouthy young upstart actually had the temerity to SWEAR at me!?” Myra fumed. Two bright splotched or red dotted he cheeks, and her scowl deepened. “The IDEA! The VERY idea!”

“Ummm humm,” Florence murmured politely.

“ . . . and HE didn’t say a word! Not one single, solitary word!” Myra seethed. “If that child had been MY daughter, I would have marched her right out to the wood shed, you can bet on that!” She exhaled a curt sigh of angry exasperation, then shook her head. “Honestly! The sooner I can take that family in hand . . . . ”

“Oh! Ma! M-Mrs. Danvers?!”

The two women glanced up sharply at the door. Grace Hansen stood in the open doorway, cradling one of the enormous cut glass punch bowls, nearly empty of its contents, in her arms.

“Oh dear, please, excuse me, I . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’m sorry.” Grace’s words of apology tumbled from her lips, one after the other in a nervous rush. “I happened to notice that this bowl was empty . . . . ”

“It’s alright, Grace,” Florence said quickly, inwardly grateful for the interruption. “Bring the bowl on in and set it there on the kitchen table. I’ll whip up more punch in a jiffy.”

Grace meekly ventured into the kitchen, taking great care to avoid making even the slightest eye contact with the still enraged Mrs. Danvers. She carefully placed the bowl on the table as her mother had asked.

“ . . . and how are the OTHER three punch bowls?” Myra snapped, venting the ever-increasing anger and exasperation that Stacy Cartwright had aroused, on a handier target.

“The one next to the door is also nearly empty,” Grace answered immediately, snapping out her answers with the crisp clearness of a young U. S. Army private in his first days of basic training. “I’m going to go right back and fetch that one, too . . . if you’d like.”

“How much punch is in the other two bowls?”

Grace flinched. “They’re both half full, Mrs. Danvers. I’ve been keeping a close eye on them.”

A smile, brittle and cold, spread across Myra Danvers’ lips. “Grace, you’ve really worked very hard over the last few days, what with cleaning up this room, fixing all the food, decorating the church, not to mention everything you’re doing now,” she said stiffly. “I just want you to know that your efforts have been noticed and are very much appreciated.”

“Why . . . th-thank you, Mrs. Danvers,” Grace said softly. She involuntarily stepped backward, her hands trembling. She couldn’t be certain which terrified her more: the overtly enraged Mrs. Danvers, or the Mrs. Danvers whose frightening parody of a smile was at such total and complete odds with the deep rooted, bitter anger smoldering in her eyes. “I . . . I’m going to g-go back and . . . and get that bowl now . . . . ”

Myra nodded, dismissing her.

Without a word, Grace turned heel and scurried from the kitchen like a squirrel, suddenly startled by the appearance of a predator.

 

“Oops! Mister Wilson! Sorry, please excuse me . . . ”

Blake Wilson eyed the young man standing before him for a long moment. “Harlan Hurley . . . . ”

“No, Sir,” he said very quickly. “I’m David!”

“David, then. Well, you’d better watch your step, Young Fella,” Blake admonished the contrite young man standing in front of him. “I must be at least the third person you’ve just up ‘n run into.”

“Sorry, Sir . . . I seem to have woken up this morning with two left feet.”

The boy’s stricken face and hazel eyes, round with horrified regret, effectively dissolved all remaining traces of Blake Wilson’s stern demeanor. “Well, your ma says you’ve been workin’ pretty hard at home over the last few months,” he said with a touch of pseudo-gruffness. “It’s a fine thing to be a good, hard worker, but a man’s gotta relax once in a while, ‘specially a young man like yourself.”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

Blake slipped a paternal arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come with me to the food table, ‘n grab yourself a plate . . . . ”

“Thank you, Mister Wilson, but I’ve already eaten a plateful . . . ”

“Then grab another! A young man like you can’t eat too much, y’ know.” He paused momentarily, his eyes scanning the faces in the crowd for his wife and the minister. He found both in conversation with Adam and Teresa Cartwright. “Git that plate filled, an’ maybe you ‘n me can step outside for a quick nip.” He opened the jacket of his suit just enough to let his young companion see the flask, brimming full of amber liquid, tucked away in the inside pocket.

“Thank you, Sir, but I don’t think I’d better!” he declined in hushed tones. “If my ma smells THAT on my breath, she’ll kill me.”

Blake grinned. “Yeah, she probably would at that,” he said. “Truth t’ tell, my ma wouldda killed me, too, when I was your age.”

“I . . . I guess I’d better go, M-Mister Wilson, Sir.”

“Good chattin’ with ya, Son.” Glancing around, he spotted Ben Cartwright, Roy Coffee, Clay Hansen, and a half dozen other friends and neighbors clustered in a tightly knit circle. Their lively conversation was liberally sprinkled with healthy doses of boisterous laughter. Blake paused just long enough to slip his flask out of his jacket pocket and take a quick swallow, before going over to join his friends.

“Harlan! Harlan Hurley!”

The young man froze mid-strode and glanced over in the direction of the kitchen, from whence the voice issued. He saw Myra Danvers standing framed in the open door, standing akimbo, with one hand stolidly placed on hips, the other grasping the handle of an empty, wooden water bucket.

“Harlan, we need more water!”

“I’m not Harlan, I’m, uuhh . . . DAVID! Yes, that’s right! I’m David!”

“Whoever!” Myra said in a dismissive tone of voice, as she thrust the bucket in his face. “We need water, and we need it right now.”

“So?” he retorted with a touch of insolence.

Myra bristled. “So go to the well and fill this bucket,” she ordered, with arm still extended and hand clasping the handle of the bucket.

“Harlan, would you please do as Mrs. Danvers asks.”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Uncle Apollo towering over him with arms folded across his massive chest. He opened his mouth to argue, only to snap it shut in the next instant, put off by the threatening glare in his uncle’s face. “Y-yes, Sir,” he mumbled, taking the bucket from Mrs. Danvers.

He took a deliberately circuitous route from the kitchen to the open portal, beyond which the stairs, leading up out of the church basement, were located.

“Well, of COURSE they’re diamond!”

He slowed, smiling at the sound of his beloved Pruella Danvers’ voice.

“They’re perfect! Pure, crystal clear, flawless . . . . PERFECT!!” Pruella continued waspishly.

“GLASS is also pure, crystal clear, and flawlessly perfect!”

“Stacy LOUISE Cartwright . . . . ”

Stacy bristled and glared over at Pruella, despite her own intention to keep her cool. “That’s Stacy ROSE Cartwright,” she growled at her antagonist of long standing. “The name change was official a few days ago.”

“Whatever!” Pruella responded in that same dismissive, bored tone that had become her mother’s trademark.

Harlan smiled, gratified that the love of his life had managed for once to come out ahead in a verbal sparring match with Stacy Cartwright. Though his parents and the Cartwrights, particularly Adam and Hoss, had been friends for more years now that any of them cared to admit at times, lately, that family seemed to be getting on his nerves.

“Still ‘n all, these earrings are NOT glass, Miss Know-It-All-Cartwright!” Pruella continued in a haughty, condescending tone. “They’re DIAMOND! The largest ones are fifteen karats EACH.”

“Really.” Stacy rebounded from her momentary lapse of temper, and managed to reply in a bemused tone of voice, spiked with just enough boredom as to be grievously insulting.

Pruella angrily stamped her foot. “I’ll have you know these earrings come from my secret admirer,” she snapped, “and they set him back a real pretty penny, too, I can tell you THAT!”

“Oh. Am I supposed to be impressed?”

A guttural, choking sound, somewhere between a cough and an infuriated sputter, issued from Pruella’s throat. Without further word she tossed her head, and flounced off, in search of someone who had enough intelligence to appreciate the truly finer things in life.

“Uh oh! She’s mad at you now, Kid,” Joe observed wryly, his eyes lingering appreciatively on Pruella Danvers’ retreating form.

“Grandpa, that no good little--- ”

“Watch the language, Kid!” Joe warned.

“ . . . at any rate, she’s BEEN mad at ME ever since I beat her up in the school yard for making fun of Molly,” Stacy said, directing a vicious scowl in the direction of Pruella Danvers’ retreating back.

“You talkin’ about the first day you started school here in Virginia City?”

“Yep!”

Joe shook his head. “That was FIVE YEARS ago!”

“Almost SIX, Grandpa!”

“Long time to hold a grudge!”

“There’s other factors at work, too, y’ know.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Pruella Danvers and I just plain can’t stand the sight of one another for one thing . . . . ”

“I agree she’s not a very nice individual,” Joe said, smiling once again at the memory of how well Pruella Danvers’ dress fit her wondrous well rounded figure. “But I adore the sight of her.”

 

“Hey, Young Fella, watch where yer goin’!” Macon Fitzhugh glared down at the young man, attired in a pair of slate gray flannel pants, white shirt, and tie.

“Sorry, Mister Fitzhugh.”

Macon peered at the younger man, squinting through rheumy, bloodshot eyes. “Say, that YOU, Hurlin’ Harley?”

The young man shifted his blue jacket over to the arm with hand holding the still empty bucket. “Hurlin’ Harley? Dontcha mean Harlan Hurley?”

“Whom ever.”

“Well, I’m not him. I’m my brother David.”

“Well, whom ever y’ are, watch where yer goin’!” Macon snapped. He pivoted abruptly, nearly losing his balance. After a brief, heart-stopping moment of wavering and wildly flailing his arms, Macon finally regained a measure of equilibrium. “Daggum smart assed young whippersnapper!”

A dozen more steps brought the young man face to face with “Matilda,” the still, presently masquerading as the new wood stove for the church. He glanced down, smiling at the sight of another wood bucket, roughly the same dimensions as the empty one in hand, sitting beside the alleged wood stove, filled to the brim with a crystal clear liquid. He set his own bucket on the floor and cautiously dipped a finger into the full one.

“Ooooowheee!” he murmured softly, his eyes round as saucers. An evil smile slowly oozed its way across the lower portion of his face.

 

“It’s about time you got back here with that water, David Hurley!” Myra Danvers admonished him severely, upon his return to the kitchen, with brimming full bucket in hand. “Whatever did you DO? Go all the way to China to fetch it?”

“No, Ma’am,” the young man murmured. “Sorry, Ma’am.” He backed out of the kitchen, and immediately melted away into the crowd.

“Harlan, I’m bored!” Pruella whined, as she sidled up alongside him. “Why don’t you and I go somewhere, and . . . . ”

He smiled down at her marveling at how beautiful she was, even in so petulant a mood, with her lower lip protruding so far out from under its upper twin. “Be patient, Pruella Darling,” he said in a smooth, oily tone. “I promise, you won’t be bored for very long.” He squeezed her hand, then moved off in the direction of the kitchen.

 

“It’s high time you got some more punch out here!” Myrna O’Hanlan growled, while Grace Hansen carefully centered the immense bowl square in the middle of the matching cut glass tray. “It’s turned out to be such a dreadfully hot afternoon, and folks’re thirsty! Very thirsty!”

Grace noted how vigorously Mrs. O’Hanlan fanned herself with a copy of the programs initially printed for the wedding of Colleen and Matt. “I’m terribly sorry about that, Mrs. O’Hanlan,” she contritely murmured an apology. “Harlan . . . . ” she paused briefly, frowning. “Or was that David? Whichever of the Hurley twins it was, he was so dreadfully long about getting the water so my ma could make up some more punch.”

Myrna snorted derisively.

Grace picked up a clean cup and quickly scooped up a ladle full of the inviting pink liquid from the bowl and poured it into the cup. “Here you are, Mrs. O’Hanlan,” she said, offered the full cup.

“Thank you.” Myrna accepted the filled cup from Grace, and gingerly sipped the contents. Her eyes widened with surprise. “Ooh! This is WONDERFUL punch!” She raised her glass once more to her lips and this time swallowed down a large gulp. “Umm ummmm! This is, without a doubt, the very best your mother has ever made.”

“Why, thank you, Mrs. O’Hanlan,” Grace said, beaming. “It’s Ma’s very special recipe.”

“Delicious!”

“May I get you another cup, Mrs. Hansen?”

“Y-yes . . . thank you. Thank you . . . thank you shhh . . . ummm, SO! Thank you SO very mush, I mean MUCH. Thank . . . you . . . very, uuhhh . . . much.”

“Oh dear! Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . are you alright?” Grace queried, unnerved by the older woman’s glassy stare and unsteady stance.

“I-I feel . . . all uva sudden, I . . . I’m feeling a little dizzy . . . . ” She placed her hand firmly on the table in an effort to steady herself.

“It MUST be the heat!” Grace murmured sympathetically. She refilled Myrna’s glass and carefully placed it in her free hand, the one not clutching the edge of the table. “Here, Mrs. O’Hanlan, perhaps some more of this will take care of that dizziness.”

Myrna lifted the cup to her lips and drained the contents in a single gulp.

“Miz O’Hanlan . . . . ” It was Clara Mudgely. “I ain’t had t’ chance t’ say congratulations to ya on Colleen getting herself hitched . . . . ”

Myrna O’Hanlan, still clutching hold of the punch table’s edge for balance and support beamed at the church organist with a wavering, lopsided smile. “Thank ya, thank ya mos’ kin’ly, Mish Midglyn . . . . ” A puzzled frown knotted her brow. “No! That’s not right! Hell, oops! Ah mean heck! Heck, I don’ even KNOW anybody name o’ Midgetlin!”

Clara favored Myrna O’Hanlan with a glare that clearly raised questions regarding the mother of the bride’s very sanity. “Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . are you ILL?” she queried bluntly.

“Ah’m fiiiiiinne! Jes’ fiiiine!” Myrna shrilled.

“I’m afraid it’s this dreadful heat, Miss Mudgely,” Grace moaned. She quickly ladled another glass of punch for Myrna O’Hanlan and pressed it into her free hand.

Clara continued to eye Myrna O’Hanlan, warily.

Myrna, blissfully unaware of Clara’s intense scrutiny, started to hum the tune SHE knew as “The Irish Rake,” a half step off key. In later years, many of the folks attending the Wedding Reception of the Century would come to know that particular tune as “The Streets of Laredo.”

“You say she’s sufferin’ HEATSTROKE?!”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Mudgely,” Grace mournfully shook her head.

“Poor woman! Probably nursin’ a healthy fit o’ the vapours, too, underneath all that heatstroke, whut with ever’thing that happened at the weddin’ upstairs,” Clara shook her head.

“I’m going to see if I can get her to sit down awhile,” Grace said, lowering her voice. “But, before I do . . . may I get YOU a glass of punch? Ma just finished making it up . . . . ”

Clara smiled. “That’s right nice o’ ya, Girl, thank ya kindly,” the organist said gratefully. “Powerful warm up there next to that organ. Powerful warm!”

Grace immediately picked up a clean cup and filled it to the brim. “Here you are, Miss Mudgely.”

 

After everyone had eaten his or her initial fill of wedding feast, the five musicians hired to provide music for dancing, quietly took their places and began the process of tuning their instruments. They were five brothers, aptly billing themselves as The McGuire Brothers. Their father, a late acquaintance and business client of Francis Sean O’Hanlan, Sr., had named all five of his sons for Ivy League universities in the hope that they would eventually pursue academia and the lucrative potential that offered. Their father’s hopes were in vain.

“ ‘ey, Corney!”

Cornell McGuire, fiddle player, as well as the eldest and most taciturn of his siblings, turned and looked over expectantly at his younger brother, Harvard.

Harvard McGuire, third in the birth order line-up, and known simply as Harv to family and friends, inclined his head toward the table, where the mother of the bride downed her third, fourth, fifth, and sixth glasses of punch in rapid succession. He was short of stature, standing a few inches shorter than Joe Cartwright, but very muscular and compact with thick, wavy red hair, sparkling green eyes, a broad, square jaw line and cleft chin. Men and women alike looked upon Harv as “the handsome one” among his brothers. “I thought t’ quaffin’ o alcoholic beverages was forbidden here.”

“Aye, that’s what Mister O’Hanlan said, Laddy Buck,” Corney affirmed with a nod, as he tuned the last string of his fiddle.

“Did t’ man ever get ‘round t’ tellin’ his wife?”

Princeton McGuire, the second son and lead musician, glanced over at each of his brothers, his eyes moving slowly from face to face briefly making eye contact with each. He was a tall, lanky man, age indeterminate, with a full thick head of carrot colored hair and beard. “Are y’ ready, Lads?” he asked, sotto voice.

One by one, his brothers curtly nodded their heads. Satisfied, Princeton ably stepped to the forefront and loudly cleared his throat. “Ladies ‘n Gents, b’fore we start in wi’ t’ reels ‘n jigs ‘n such like that, we’d like t’ play a waltz,” he addressed the wedding guests in a pronounced, lilting Irish brogue. A roguish grin slowly spread across his lips. “T’ boys ‘n meself hear there’s a couple o’ gents among ye that’s dancing wi’ their lovely wives f’r t’ very first time.”

There was a smattering of amused laughter from the gathered assembly, followed by a round of polite applause.

“R-reels and jigs?” Ben paled, as the newly wed couples moved out onto the dance floor. “Stacy, I hope you know how . . . . ”

“Not to worry,” she hastened to assure him. “Mister O’Hanlan and Molly have been teaching me how to dance Irish jigs and reels since they found out my mother, Miss Paris, was an Irishwoman. Mister O’Hanlan said I should know these things because they’re part of my heritage.”

“Thank God!” Ben murmured softly.

The profound, almost comical look of relief on Ben’s face, brought a bemused smile to Stacy’s. “You’re not getting out of dancing with me that easily, Pa.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ben declared, casting a quick furtive glance at Myra Danvers, standing alongside Florence Hansen.

 

“One . . . two . . . three,” Princeton McGuire counted softly, nodding emphatically on three.

The musicians struck up a waltz tune with a decided Irish air. Both grooms, their faces beaming with pure, unadulterated joy, only had eyes for their respective brides. Matt’s eyes shone brightly with unshed tears of happiness, as he lead Clarissa past the smiling eyes of all the well-wishers present. Apollo hugged Colleen closer as their bodies moved in rhythm with the music, and whispered, “I love you,” in her ear. Colleen, smiling warmly, silently mouthed back the words, “I love you, too, Apollo.”

Mick O’Flynn stood at the back edge of the gathered crowd, watching the two newly wed couples, with an almost smug, self-satisfied grin. “Yessir, Hoss Cartwright, y’ done good!” he murmured to the biggest of Ben’s son’s standing along side him. “Y’ done real, real, real, real GOOD!”

“Mister O’Flynn, I keep tellin’ ya it was a GROUP effort,” Hoss hastened to point out. “T’ be perfectly honest, it was Colleen ‘n Clarissa that hatched the whole thing.”

“Which they wouldn’t have if YOU hadn’t given t’ pair of ‘em the idea.”

“ . . . an’ I wouldna had the idea in the first place if I hadn’t seen the bet my sister placed in YOUR li’l black accountin’ book. So you ‘n Stacy had as much part in the whole thing as I did.”

“Y-you’re too kind, Lad,” Mick sniffled, his eyes shining bright with his own unshed tears.

“ . . . ‘n YOU’RE every bit the hopeless romantic I am, Mister O’Flynn,” Hoss declared with a grin, as he handed the elderly man a fresh handkerchief.

“Mick! Mick!” It was Barney, elbowing his way through the tightly packed crowd of guests watching the newly wed couples dance. “Mick, we gotta problem!”

“What’s t’ problem, Barney?”

“Boris t’ Russian’s er, uuhh . . . VODKA is missin’!” Barney reported, his face pale, and eyes round with sheer terror.

“Vodka?” Hoss looked over at Mick and Barney with a bemused expression. “You fellas make vodka?!”

“No, Mister Cartwright, we DON’T actually make vodka,” Barney blithely answered Hoss’ question. “It’s really poteen, but we let HIM think it’s vodka.”

“What’s poteen?” Hoss asked.

“It’s a lot like t’ stuff y’ call moonshine, ‘cept it’s made from potatoes instead o’ corn, Mister Cartwright,” Barney said with a touch of pride. “T’ stuff’s clear as water ‘n stronger ‘n you AND Boris t’ Russian put together, and THAT if t’ pair of y’ve not bathed in a month o’ Sundays.”

Hoss frowned. “Mister O’Flynn, ain’t that kinda, well . . . dishonest?”

“Not at all at all, Laddie, not at all at all,” Mick replied, “seein’ as how Boris never quite asked, ‘n WE never told.”

“Well, I guess if this Boris the Russian ain’t got the good sense t’ ask questions, I s’pose y’ ain’t completely cheatin’ ‘im,” Hoss allowed.

“You’re thinkin’ more ‘n more like me all t’ time, Mister Cartwright,” Mick said smugly.

“Now ya got me worried!”

“It’s been grand chattin’ with ye, Mister Cartwright, but you’ll have t’ excuse us,” Mick said, quickly, as he doffed his hat. “I need t’ go help Barney here find that ‘vodka’ b’fore Boris shows up. Unfortunately, he’s not as . . . shall we say as even tempered as yourself?”

 

 

End of Part 4.

 

***

 

1\. Excepted from “The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony,” found in “The Book of Common Prayer . . . According to the Use of the United Church of England and Ireland,” dated 1855.


	5. Chapter 5

Florence Hansen and Myra Danvers, meanwhile, stood side by side at the outer fringes of the circle gathered to watch the two newlywed couples enjoy their very first dance together. The powerful hypnotic quality of the music combined with the slow easy movements of the dancers, propelled her back in time to another wedding and another bride and groom enjoying their first dance together.

“ . . . and what are YOU so happy about?” Myra Danvers’ strident voice rudely wrenched Florence from her nostalgic reverie back to present time and place.

“Just remembering the first time Clay and I danced together . . . as husband and wife,” Florence replied with a nostalgic smile on her face and a dreamy, far away look in her eyes.

A short, curt sigh of exasperation and frustration escaped from Myra’s lips. She stood with posture rigidly straight and arms folded tightly across her chest, glaring indignantly at waltzing newly weds and at Ben and Stacy Cartwright, standing near the front of the gathered crowd of onlookers, to her right.

“We didn’t dance the waltz, of course,” Florence continued. “When Clay and I got married, ‘most everyone, especially my mother and Clay’s, thought it to be wicked and scandalous. But, our faces were all aglow, every bit as much as theirs’.”

“Doggerel!” Myra muttered contemptuously under her breath. “Nothing but a lot of nonsensical, romantic doggerel!”

Florence bristled for a moment, then sighed. She had a sneaking suspicion, somewhere deep inside, that Myra Danvers might be more deserving of her pity, rather than her anger. She had never, not in all the years she had lived in Virginia City, ever so much as breathed a word about Mister Danvers. To anyone! This Florence knew for absolute fact. On the rare occasions anyone had the temerity to ask, Myra became evasive and changed the subject, as quick as she could. “Odd thing that . . . . ” she ruminated in silence. While it was true that Myra had been widowed a number of years, ever since her daughter, Pruella, was a baby, according to Clara Mudgely . . . Georgianna Wilkens, Virginia City’s chief librarian and president of the Virginia City Literacy Guild, had been widowed for nearly TWICE the number of years. Yet SHE spoke often and very well of her late husband. “Myra’s marriage to Mister Danvers mustn’t have been a happy one,” she silently mused.

“Dance!” Myra continued her rant, blissfully ignorant of the fact that her long-suffering audience of one had effectively tuned her out. “Dance indeed! It’s just an excuse for groping in public, and I for one am NOT going to stand for it. First thing Monday morning, I’m going to give Reverend Hildebrandt a fair piece of my mind for . . . for allowing such an outrage within the hallowed basement of this church.”

“Um hm,” Florence automatically responded when Myra paused for an instant to inhale.

“I’VE heard that . . . that indecent dance is banned in Boston!” Myra declared, with an emphatic nod of her head.

“Really? Then you must’ve heard WRONG, Ma’am.”

Myra turned and brought the full force of her near homicidal fury of her homicidal to bear on Adam Cartwright, who with Teresa, stood on the other side of Florence Hansen.

“You DARE to contradict your elders, Young Man?” Myra demanded imperiously.

“Ma’am, I am not CONTRADICTING you,” Adam’s tone held a faint, condescending note. “I am merely correcting a, shall we say misunderstanding?” His lips curved upward in a tight, mirthless grin. “I have a couple of friends living in Boston, with whom I correspond on a regular basis. In many of their letters, they write often of attending parties AND dancing the waltz.”

Myra Danvers, her face nearly the deep crimson hue of port wine, abruptly turned away from Adam and Teresa. “Ill mannered lout! I don’t know who he thinks he is . . . . ” she muttered aloud.

Adam’s sharp ears picked up every word. “Please, forgive my appalling lack of manners, Ma’am,” he said smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m Adam Cartwright, Ben Cartwright’s eldest son. This is my wife, Teresa.”

Myra’s face paled. A strangled cry wrenched itself from her open, gaping mouth.

“I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, too, Ma’am,” Teresa acknowledged the introduction with a wry smile and voice laced with sarcasm. “I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t catch YOUR name?”

“Adam . . . Teresa, this is Myra Danvers,” smiling, Florence Hansen blithely made introductions. “I’m sure Ben’s told you all about her, seeing as how close they are to, uummm, shall we say an--- ” The remainder of her words died a quick, merciful death under the fierce, murderous scowl on Myra’s face.

“Ah! Then, you must be THE Mrs. Danvers.” Adam said, remembering the “kind” words his sister had to say about this woman the night of the waltz lesson.

Myra eyed Adam suspiciously. “I suppose I AM . . . given that I’m the ONLY Mrs. Danvers living in Virginia City,” she snapped. “What of it?”

“Why nothing, Ma’am, nothing at all,” Adam said blandly. “It’s just that my wife and I have heard so much about you, we feel as if we already know you . . . quite intimately.”

Suspicion immediately gave way to a coy smile. “Ooohhh?” she trilled.

“Yes, Mrs. Danvers, much to our great REGRET it would seem.”

Myra Danvers’ smile froze.

“Now if you ladies would be so kind as to excuse us, my wife and I had best go join my father,” Adam rambled on blithely, very much aware of the insult given.

“Yes, of course,” Florence responded, wholly ignorant of the significance of Adam’s “bon mot.” “It’s so wonderful seeing you again, Adam, and Teresa, I’m so glad to have finally met YOU. Ben’s told us so much . . . . ”

“All good, I hope?” Teresa quipped with a saucy grin.

“All VERY good,” Florence hastened to assure her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hansen,” Adam said, this time with genuine warmth. “My family and I will be visiting for the entire summer, so I’ve no doubt we’ll see more of each other.”

“I hope so, Adam . . . . ”

 

“Now we’d like t’ invite the parents . . . and those representing the parents . . . of our happy newly wed couples t’ come on out ‘n dance,” Princeton issued the invitation with a warm smile.

“Come on, Erma! That’s US!”

Erma Wilson favored her husband with a dark, venomous glare. “I most certainly and assuredly will NOT!” she declared, giving full vent to her outrage.

“Aww, come on, Erma . . . please?”

“NO!” She stubbornly folded her plump arms across her chest. “It’s bad enough our son actually . . . somehow . . . ended up MARRYING that . . . that . . . saloon girl.” She grimaced. “It’s even worse that WE can’t have it annulled! But, if you expect me to get out there on the same dance floor with THAT . . . with that WOMAN--- ”

“Oh, Erma . . . for heaven’s sake!” Blake seized her by the hand, and with a strength surprising in a man of his small stature and wiry frame, hauled her toward the area set aside for dancing, turning a deaf ear to her loud protestations and angry threats.

“Sally, I guess you ‘n me are the closest thing Clarissa has to a ma ‘n pa here today,” Sam observed casually.

“I think you’re right about that, Sam.”

Sam gallantly offered Sally his arm. “Shall we?”

“I was hopin’ y’d ask, Sam.”

Together, arm in arm, they made their way toward the dance floor. Harlan Hurley stepped backwards, bumping against Sam with enough force to send the Silver Dollar bar tender sprawling ignobly onto the floor. Fortunately for Sally, he had involuntarily let go of her arm in the same instant he and Harlan collided, else she would have crashed down on the floor along with him.

“Oops! Oh dear! Puh-please . . . please excuse me!” The Hurley boy immediately ran around behind the fallen bartender and, slipping his own strong arms under Sam’s, hoisted him back to his feet.

“You ok, Sam?” Sally queried, peering into his face anxiously.

“Yeah, I’m fine. No damage done!”

“David Hurley, you’ve GOT to look out where you’re going!” Sally immediately rounded on the young man furiously. “You’ve done nothin’ but crash into folks ever since this shin dig got started!”

“Y-yes, Ma’am . . . I-I’ really very sorry, Ma’am,” Harlan murmured as he eased his way into the crowd of people surging toward the front of the room.

 

Myrna O’Hanlan gulped down her umpteenth glass of punch and set the empty cup back down on the table beside the punch bowl. “C’mon, Francis, ‘s OUR turn . . . . ”

Francis noted his wife’s glazed eyes, lopsided smile, and increased difficulty maintaining equilibrium with growing concern. “Myrna, are you SURE you’re feelin’ alright? Miss Hansen said somethin’ about heatstroke a while ago.”

“Francis, m’ love, ah n’er felt better,” Myrna replied, seizing her husband by the wrist. The sudden movement sent her reeling.

Francis quickly grabbed his wife by the waist. Myrna lurched forward, collapsing heavily against her husband, causing him to loose his own footing.

“Steady there, Mister O’Hanlan,” Hoss neatly stepped in and easily steadied the flailing couple.

“Thanks, Hoss, much obliged,” Francis said gratefully.

“Aaww, Frannie-wannie, y’ hug real good,” Myrna declared, as she tightened her arms about his shoulders and pressed her body closer.

“Myrna . . . . ”

“Kisshh me, Frannie!” Myrna puckered her lips, as Hoss very pointedly looked the other way.

“Now I KNOW there’s something wrong with ya,” Francis said in a wry tone. “Y’ never, ever get this chummy with me out in public.”

“Does ‘at mean yer not gonna kiss me?” Myrna pouted.

“Hoss, can y’ help me get her over to a chair?” Francis turned desperate eyes to the gentle giant still standing behind him.

“Sure thing, Mister O’Hanlan.” Hoss took one arm and the woman’s husband took the other. “I thought whiskey wasn’t gonna be allowed at this party,” he said, taking care to keep his voice low.

“ ‘Tis so,” he sighed dolefully.

“You ‘n Mrs. O’Hanlan ain’t . . . ummm, sneakin’ a nip here ‘n there on the sly . . . are ya?”

“Absolutely NOT!” Francis declared stoutly. “Hoss, m’ lad, I swear t’ y’ by t’ cross o’ Christ himself, I’ve not had so much as a single drop. As for Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . she NEVER touches t’ stuff, except f’r medicinal purposes.”

Hoss nodded, accepting Francis O’Hanlan’s declarations of innocence on behalf of himself and his wife. “Mrs. O’Hanlan DID have a pretty rough time o’ things in the minister’s office a li’l while ago. It could be it’s all catchin’ up with ‘er, now that the wedding’s over ‘n Colleen’s safely married.”

“Don’tcha be goin’ ‘round talkin’ ‘bout me like I’m not here, Hosshh Car’wright!” Myrna admonished Hoss severely. “Where ‘r we goin’? The dancin’ s back up that away!” She inclined her head in the direction of the dance floor, nearly falling once again.

“Myrna, please! No more sudden moves!” her husband admonished her wearily.

“But where ‘r we goin?”

“We thought maybe we’d take ya over here so ‘s ya can sit down ‘n rest a spell, Mrs. O’Hanlan,” Hoss said.

“But, I don’ WANNA sshhh . . . uuhh, SIT. . . down . . . . ”

Hoss smiled at the close call.

“ . . . . Ah wanna dance.”

“Ma’am, I’m not so sure ya oughtta . . . . ?”

“Maybe YUR no’ sure, but I’M sure,” Myrna said firmly. “ ‘S m’ daughter’s weddin’, an’ I’m gonna dansshh . . . . ” She grabbed her husband’s wrist once again and led him back toward the dance floor, weaving a path in keeping with the ‘straight’ lines of a shillelagh stick. Not quite knowing what else to do, Hoss reluctantly followed.

Francis O’Hanlan Junior watched in outright disbelief as his mother valiantly attempted to waltz with his father. With nearly every step, she tripped over something, be it a loose floorboard, the hem of her dress, and fell into someone, laughing uproariously.

“F-Frankie?”

“Yeah, Molly, what is it?”

“What’s wrong with Ma?”

Frankie his eyes round with a mixture of shocked horror, apprehension, and embarrassment. “If I didn’t know better? I’d say she was drunker ‘n skunk.”

 

Athena and Jack Hurley, representing the late Dmetri and Hellene Nikolas, eased their way among the two newly wed couples, Sam Tucker and Sally Tyler, who stood in for Clarissa Starling Wilson’s parents, the O’Hanlans, and the Wilsons, .

“Jack, we gotta get that re-sippee, uuh . . . resh-ship-pe . . . re-ci-pe!” Athena said, as she labored valiantly to stifle a growing urge to giggle. “We. Gotta. Get that . . . re-ci-pe . . . from Miz Hanshen!” She punctuated her words with a loud hiccup. “There! Ah said it!”

“A-Athena, are . . . are you alright?” Jack queried as he made due note of his wife’s flushed cheeks, her lopsided smile, and half closed eyes.

“Ahm fine . . . jus’ fine,” Athena drawled. “Can’t remmemer d’ lash . . . . D’. Lasssst. Time uh felt bedder! Jack, we jus’ GODDA get dat re-ship-pee from M--- ”

“I know,” Jack sighed, flinching from the odd way people seemed to be staring at Athena and himself all of a sudden. “We’ve gotta get Mrs. Hansen’s recipe for her pink punch. This is the third time you’ve said so.”

Athena hiccupped again, then dissolved into a gale of uproarious laughter.

“Athena Nikolas Hurley, have you been nippin’ from a flask you got hidden somewhere?” Jack demanded, lowering his voice to the volume of a stage whisper.

Athena’s jaw dropped. Her indignant gasp quickly choked off her mirth with a very loud snort. “Are you implyin’ that I’m . . . that I’m DRUNK?!” she demanded, righteously indignant.

“ARE you?”

“I mosshht sshher-tin-lee am NOT!”

Jack’s return glare openly questioned her staunch declaration.

“Oh, Jack . . . Jack . . . y’ oughtta shee . . . see. Yer face . . . . ” Athena’s outrage quickly evaporated as she succumbed to yet another round of boisterous mirth, laughing when she exhaled and snorting loudly each time she took air in.

“Can’t be all THAT funny,” Jack growled, as he wrapped his arm about her waist, and draped her arm across his shoulders. “Come on, Athena.”

“HEY! WHUCHA THINK YER DOIN’?!” Athena protested at the top of her voice, as Jack dragged her off the dance floor. “WHERE Y’ TAKIN’ ME?”

“I’m taking you someplace where you can SIT down before you end up FALLING down,” Jack replied in a firm, no-nonsense tone of voice, as he searched the sidelines for their children. He spotted their young daughter, Cassandra, chatting with a group of her friends. After making eye contact, he waved her over with a nod of his head.

“Pa?!” the girl queried softly, as she gazed over at her mother through eyes round with apprehension. “What’s wrong with MA? She sick or something?”

“I dunno, Girl,” Jack sighed, completely at al loss. “I overheard folks talkin’ ‘bout heatstroke . . . . ”

“It IS awful hot in here,” Cassandra agreed.

“Yeah. That’s gotta be what’s ailin’ poor Mrs. O’Hanlan, bless her heart . . . an’ it could very well be what’s ailin’ your ma. Wouldja please run over to that table there an’ fetch her a nice cup of punch, Sweetheart?” He inclined his head toward the nearest punch table, the one containing Florence Hansen’s pink recipe,

“Sure thing, Pa.”

 

“ . . . an’ now, we’d like to invite the rest o’ ye to dance wi’ t’ newly wed couples,” Princeton finally invited the rest of the guests.

“It’s finally OUR turn, Pa,” Stacy looked up at her father, smiling.

Ben returned her smile. “Indeed it is, Young Woman.” He turned, facing her, and held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

“Yes, you may,” Stacy replied, placing her hand in his.

 

Myra Danvers stood just inside the doorway between the church kitchen and the rest of the basement, watching Ben and Stacy with a baleful glare as they circled the dance floor on the opposite side of the room, threading their way among the other dancers.

“Good afternoon, Ladies.” It was Sheriff Coffee, with a cookie on one hand and a glass filled to brimming with pink punch in the other. His eyes appeared glassy.

“Hello, Roy,” Florence returned the lawman’s greeting with a warm, friendly smile.

Myra Danvers nodded stiffly, not deigning to speak.

“Florence, thissshh . . . I mean is this punch your special recipe?” Roy held up the cup in hand, still two thirds full.

“Yes, it is,” Florence replied.

“Well, THIS is the best da--- . . . oops! . . . I mean best dar--- uhhh, sorry!” Roy, much to his horror and chagrin, felt the sudden rush of blood to his face. He raised the glass in hand to his lips and emptied it with a single gulp. “Florence . . . dish, uhhh . . . this recipe o’ yours sure packs one he---HECK! uva wallop!”

“Roy?!” Florence took note of his ruddier-than-usual-complexion, his glassy eyes, and his difficulty speaking with an anxious frown. “Oh dear . . . Roy, are you alright?”

“I . . . I dunno,” Roy murmured softly, as he squeezed his eyes tight shut against an environment that had just begun to swim and pulsate nauseatingly before him. “A minute ago, I jus’ fine. Now . . . all of a sudden . . . m’ head feels like it’s floatin’ ‘bout three feet off my shoulders.”

“You must be suffering a touch of heatstroke,” Florence declared, as she set the candy dish in hand down on the counter, and moved to the sheriff’s side.

“It . . . IS a mite warm down here,” Roy moaned softly.

“Yes, indeed it is,” Florence agreed, as she placed the candy dish in her hands down onto the kitchen counter, and moved to the sheriff’s side. “It’s really given poor Mrs. O’Hanlan quite a turn.”

Roy cautiously opened his eyes just in time to see Myrna O’Hanlan stumble by, draped almost shamelessly over his deputy, Clem Foster. The latter’s face was a strange shade of port wine, and his eyes were lifted heavenward, desperately beseeching divine intervention. Though he sympathized with poor Clem, Roy couldn’t help but laugh. “Now THAT’S what I call a real bad case o’ heat prostitution!”

Florence Hansen threw back her head and laughed.

“That’s NOT funny!” Myra Danvers declared in a tone that dripped icicles.

Roy paled in the face of Myra Danvers’ malevolent, withering glare. “Oh, uhhh . . .s-sorry, Ma’am,” he babbled, “I’m afraid that, uhhh . . . kinda . . . well, kinda slipped out, I s’pose. I m-meant t’ say heat prosecution, pros--- oh dang it, overcome by t’ heat!”

“Come on, Roy . . . let’s go find an empty chair so you can sit a spell,” Florence said, taking him by the elbow.

“I dunno how y’ stand it, Florence,” Roy murmured softly. “Hour after hour after hour . . . . ” He sighed, and shook his head, only to regret it an instant later.

“Take it slow,” Florence gently admonished the lawman, as he stumbled and pitched forward.

“ . . . hour after hour after blessed hour . . . . ” Roy rambled on, “tha’ woman gives ME uh real bad case o’ t’ heebie-jeebies after I’ve only been in her comp’ny fer a few minutes.”

“Mrs. O’Hanlan DOES tend to be rather high strung,” Florence had to agree.

“Uhh ain’t talkin’ ‘bout Miz O’Hanlan,” Roy groaned. “I was talkin’ ‘bout Miz DANVERS. Ah wonder whut burr worked its way up her---, uh mean . . . uh wonder what’s got ‘er so dang riled up?”

“She IS very upset about Reverend Hildebrandt allowing the wedding guests to waltz,” Florence replied.

Roy cautiously turned his head and favored Florence with a bewildered frown. “That a fact?”

Florence nodded her head. “Oh yes. Myra . . . Mrs. Danvers . . . said--- ” She abruptly broke off as a bright pink patch blossomed forth becomingly on each cheek. “I, ummm . . . don’t feel right using words like that in polite mixed company, so I’ll just say that she thought it highly improper and leave it go at that.”

“Miz Danvers really said . . . whut it was she said?”

Again Florence nodded.

“Well now, ain’t THAT peculiar! I had dinner with that woman a couple a nights ago, ‘n she kept blatherin’ on, ‘n on, ‘n on t’ whole night ‘bout how much she was lookin’ forward t’ sharin’ a waltz or two with BEN.”

 

“Ma?” Grace Hansen, meanwhile, ventured into the church kitchen, in search of her mother.

“ . . . and what, pray, do YOU want NOW?” Myra Danvers demanded, turning the full force of her ever-growing frustration and outrage on a target that had unwittingly moved into very close range.

Grace yelped and jumped backward. “Oh!” she gasped, her face a sickly yellow color, her eyes round with sheer terror. “M-Mrs. Danvers! I . . . I’m so t-terribly s-sorry, I was looking f-for my mother ‘cause, uhhh . . . well, I, that is, M-Miss Mudgely . . . you know, she’s ummm, the . . . th-the church organist?”

“I KNOW who Miss Mudgely is!” Myra snapped. “Now would you please stop that inane babbling and come to the point?”

Grace flinched away from the intensity of Mrs. Danvers’ glare, and meekly averted her eyes to the floor. “S-she just told m-me to . . . to tell m-my mother that, umm . . . the wedding cake j-just arrived.”

“Well, it’s ABOUT time! Where is it?”

“The men from the bakery have it at the basement door, Ma’am. I . . . I’ll just go and . . . and s-see if I can find Ma . . . . ”

“Don’t bother,” Myra said in a tone of voice, imperious and condescending. “I’LL see to it.” With that, she abruptly turned heel and angrily flounced out of the kitchen.

 

“Well, Barney, m’lad, I’ve bad news an’ I’ve even worse news,” Mick said dolefully. “Which do y’ want t’ be hearin’ FIRST?”

“Let’s start with t’ BAD news first, Mick,” Barney reluctantly chose, with heart in mouth.

“T’ bad news is . . . I found t’ bucket with Boris t’ Russian’s ‘vodka.’ ” Mick held up the wooden bucket in his hand.

“Oh, but, Mick . . . that’s GOOD news! That’s t’ BEST news I think I’ve ever heard!” Vastly relieved, young Barney began to babble. “Where was it?”

“In t’ kitchen . . . over there!” Mick pointed.

Barney frowned. “I don’t understand, Mick. If this is t’ bad news, what can possibly be t’ even worse news?”

“See f’r yourself, Lad.” Mick tipped the bucket, allowing the younger man to see inside.

Barney’s face paled the instant he peered inside the bucket, and his jaw dropped. For a time, he stood, unmoving, staring with morbid fascination into the empty bucket, through eyes round with sheer horror. “H-holy J-Jesus, Mary, ‘n Joseph, Saints preserve us!” he exclaimed, when at long last he found his voice, crossing himself vigorously.

“My sentiments exactly,” Mick said wryly.

“Mick, what’ll we DO?” Barney cried. “Boris t’ Russian’ll be here in . . . what time IS it?”

Mick reached into his pocket for his watch. Not finding it immediately, he scowled.

“M-Mick?”

Mick O’Flynn’s gnarled fingers frantically moved through the pocket, searching for the watch. Not finding it in its customary place, he began a frenzied search of every pocket in the garments he wore. “M’ watch is GONE!”

“What’ll we do NOW?” Barney wailed.

“Not t’ worry! Matilda’s cookin’ up another batch o’ ‘vodka’ right now,” Barney said quickly.

“WHAT?! MICK, ARE Y’ DAFT?!??”

“Barney, wouldja PLEASE keep your voice down?” Mick clapped his hand over the young man’s mouth, effectively gagging him.

“R-right under t’ nose of t’ sheriff AN’ his deputy, t’ church minister, t’ stuck up Ladies Guild, ‘n most o’ the good folks o’ Virginia City?! Oh, Holy Mary Mother of God!” Barney moaned, as he once more crossed himself. “We’re dead!”

“No, we’re not!” Mick said sternly. “Now I want you to g’won out ‘n wait f’r Boris t’ Russian at t’ usual place, ‘n stall ‘im.”

“H-how long?”

“An hour, at least . . . longer if y’ can.”

“Mick, how’ll I know it’s an hour? We’ve NO watch!”

“Then just stall ‘im as long as y’ can,” Mick said quickly. “I’ve GOT t’ get back t’ Matilda. She’s workin’ on a whoppin’ big batch right now, ‘n y’ know how tetchy she gets.”

“Oh no!” Barney gasped, his hands automatically rising to cover his open, gaping mouth.

“She’s cookin’ up enough, I hope t’ fill half that bucket,” Mick said grimly.

For a moment, Barney’s entire body wavered.

“Buck up, Lad!” Mick seized his young protégée by the shoulders and shook him soundly. “T’ last thing I need right now is for y’ to be faintin’ dead away on me!”

“B-but, t’ last time we tried makin’ a big batch--- ”

“That’s ‘cause I wasn’t watchin’ properly!” Mick said severely. “I’m gonna be right there along side Matilda, nursin’ her through every step o’ t’ way. Now g’won.”

Barney nodded, then turned and bolted, beating a straight path to the door leading directly from the church basement outside.

 

“Franssshhhish, I’m thirsshtee,” Myrna O’Hanlan giggled. “Be a dear ‘n gimme some more punsshhh?”

“I think you’ve had quite enough o’ that punch, Myrna,” Francis said firmly.

“Bu’ I’m thirsshhh-teee,” Myrna pouted.

“Myrna . . . . ”

“If ‘n YOU won’ get it f’r me, I’ll geddit m’sshelf!” Myrna O’Hanlan shot right out of her seat. The sudden, upward thrusting motion sent the room spinning crazily before her eyes. She took a tentative step forward, her body wavering.

Francis O’Hanlan was at her side in an instant. “Myrna, f’r heaven’s sake!” He seized her by the shoulders and turned her back toward the chairs they had just occupied.

“Franssshhhisshh . . . . ”

Francis gently, yet very firmly sat her back down. “Myrna, what have y’ been imbibing BESIDES t’ punch?”

Her hands, clenched into tight fists, immediately and indignantly found her hips. She glared up at her husband, thoroughly outraged. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean what are y’ imbibing besides t’ punch!”

Her eyes went round with shocked horror and indignation. “Franshish Sshhean O’Hanlan are y’ accusshhin’ ME o’--- ?!” she gasped, outraged.

“Yes, I am!”

“Never! Ah only drink whisshhkey for medishinul purposshhes!” She furiously shook her finger in his direction. “An’ well ya know dat, too, Mishter Franshish Shhhahawn O’Hanl’n!”

“Mister O’Hanlan?”

Francis looked up sharply and found himself staring into the grim face of Myra Danvers.

“The wedding cake has arrived.” Myra smiled, a tight cold mirthless smile.

“It’s about bloody time!” Francis muttered, rising.

 

“Mister O’Hanlan, I am dreadfully sorry about the mix up,” Myra offered her apology in a disparaging tone of voice. She sighed, and shook her head. “I TOLD Mrs. Murray that the cake was to be delivered here . . . to the church . . . at nine-forty-five this morning. ‘Nine forty-five?’ says she. ‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘Nine-forty-five.’ If I told her once, I must have told her a dozen times--- ”

“ ‘Tis alright,” Francis very pointedly cut her off. After the wholly unexpected turn of events during the ceremony . . . make that ceremoNIES, coupled his wife’s distressing bout of heat stroke, the last thing in the world he wanted to do right now was listen to a protracted Myra Danvers tirade. “ ‘Tis alright, no harm done. Least wise t’ cake is here NOW, ‘n--- ” His words abruptly terminated in a cry of pure astonishment. “M-Mrs. Danvers, that’s . . . that’s, ummm . . . quite a cake, if it’s an inch!” he stammered, the instant he once again recovered his voice.

Myra’s eyes reluctantly followed the line of Francis O’Hanlan’s gaze. Upon catching sight of the cake, her jaw dropped with a strangled, guttural cry.

The confectionary masterpiece was enormous, tiered with ten layers. The largest layer on the bottom had to have at least measured the height of an average man in diameter. Though iced with white icing, the roses, leaves, ribbon, and other confectionary trim was arrayed in a myriad of dazzling, brilliant colors. On top of the cake sat the customary figures of bride and groom. This bride figure, however, was quite voluptuous, with a pair of enormous, caricatured breasts, tightly ensconced in a skintight gown, with a neckline that plunged almost to her nipples. Her groom looked on with a very appreciative smile. The white cart, upon which the cake sat, was festooned with silk ribbons, hued in hued in the same bright, gaudy colors as the trim on the cake.

“I . . . I thought I’d asked y’ to order one big enough t’ serve between a hundred ‘n a hundred ‘n fifty! I’ll bet this one could serve TWENTY times that, ‘n still have lots left over! Madam, if this . . . this OUTRAGE is s’posed t’ be some kinda JOKE--- ”

“Mister O’Hanlan, that is NOT the cake I ordered!” Myra moaned softly. “It’s NOT!”

“ . . . and y’d best NOT be addin’ t’ cost o’ that monstrosity t’ my bill either,” Francis stated with a curt nod of his head for emphasis. “I’m more than willin’ to pay for the cake I asked for, mind--- ”

 

“Pa . . . Stacy . . . come ON!” Joe urged, grinning from ear-to-ear, as he came up from behind his father and sister, and gently linked his arms through theirs. “They’re getting ready to cut the wedding cake.”

“Finally!” Stacy exclaimed. “I hope it’s chocolate.”

Joe turned to his sister with a look of horror on his face so grotesque, it was almost comical. “A . . . A wedding cake that’s . . . ummm, what you just said?!” he queried, then vigorously shook his head. “No! You will never . . . EVER . . . see a . . . a wedding cake that’s . . . that’s wh-what you . . . j-just . . . said.”

“Why not?”

“ ‘Cause it’s terrible bad luck, Kiddo,” Joe replied with a melodramatic shudder. “In fact, I think it’s just about the worst kinda bad luck there is.”

“Why is having a choc---?!”

“Ssshhh!” Joe quickly hushed her. He cast a quick, furtive glance over his left shoulder, then over his right. “Stacy . . . y-you shouldn’t oughtta be saying a thing like that, NOT inside a church for heaven’s sake.”

“I shouldn’t be saying a thing like . . . what?” Stacy demanded, favoring her brother with a bewildered frown.

“A thing like . . . what . . . you, umm . . . just said,” Joe replied in a tone of voice a bit too solemn.

“You mean . . . ch---?”

“Sshhh!” Joe immediately shushed her once again. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, if Reverend Hildebrandt ever hears you say that . . . . ” He groaned, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Grandpa, if you don’t tell me why a ch--- . . . why MY favorite kinda cake’s bad luck for a wedding cake, and why I can’t say it in church, I’m gonna tickle you silly!” Stacy threatened.

“You mean to tell me you . . . that you don’t know the OTHER name for your favorite kind of cake?” Joe queried.

“WHAT other name?”

Joe glanced over his shoulder again, then bent down and whispered in her ear, “DEVILSfood.”

The look of horrified astonishment on Stacy’s face sent Joe into peals of laughter, dragging their father along with him. “Joseph Francis Cartwright, you made that up!” she accused.

“No . . . n-no, I didn’t!” Joe insisted. “Chocolate cake IS also known as devils food. It’s the truth, Kid . . . I swear . . . it’s the pure, unvarnished truth!”

“Pa?” Stacy queried, turning her attention to Ben.

“I . . . I can’t, ummm . . . vouch for anything ELSE your brother said, but he’s right about devils food cake being another name for chocolate cake,” Ben confirmed, as his laughter began to subside.

“They named it after YOU, ‘cause you love it so darn much,” Joe added, with a smug grin, “just like they named ANGEL food cake after ME because that’s MY favorite.”

“They did NOT!”

“They did SO!”

“That’s impossible!” Stacy argued. “Because if they HAD named angel food cake after you, they would’ve named it FALLEN angel food cake.”

Joe responded by sticking out his tongue.

Stacy returned the gesture.

“Alright, Children . . . I think you two need to settle down,” Ben said with an amused smile. “We ARE out in public, don’t forget and you need to conduct your--- ” His remaining words ended abruptly in a strangled gasp. Visions of the small cake, exquisitely decorated, lying crushed to a pulp beneath the door opening from the barroom into the back room at the Silver Dollar the night of the bachelor party began to dance through his head. “Oh no . . . please . . . no!” he whispered, as the blood drained right out of his face.

“Pa?” Stacy queried anxiously, placing a tentative hand on his arm.

Ben started violently. All of a sudden his eyes were no longer on the oversized wedding cake, with the figures of buxom bride and leering groom gracing its top tier, but on the anxious, apprehensive faces of his two younger children.

“Y-You alright?” Joe asked.

“F-fine,” Ben stammered. He placed a paternal hand on Joe’s right shoulder and on Stacy’s left, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The deepening furrows, already creasing their brows, told him at once he had failed miserably. “I-I’m fine,” he said again, giving each a gentle squeeze. “Honest!”

Though neither Joe nor Stacy questioned him, he knew by the looks on their faces and in the quick, furtive exchange of glances, that they entertained grave doubts.

 

In the midst of the growing circle of wedding guests, come to toast the brides and the grooms and partake of the wedding cake, Hoss took up position next to his older brother. “Say, uhhh . . . Adam?” he queried softly, his eyes taking in the height and breadth of the ostentatious wedding cake rising up before them. “Y-You don’t s’pose . . . . ?!”

“I don’t suppose . . . what, Big Brother?” Adam asked in a complacent tone of voice.

“Oh yeah . . . . ” Hoss sighed, remembering that by the time they had gotten around to serving the cake, rather TRYING to serve the cake, at the party last night, Adam lay stretched out on one of the tables, snoozing deep in the cups of ‘Bombed Bay.’

“Hoss?” Adam prompted, as he turned and glanced over at his younger brother with left eyebrow slightly upraised.

“Nothin’, Adam, don’t pay me no never mind . . . . ” Hoss fervently hoped and prayed that the horrible suspicions now mushrooming with an almost sickening rapidity within his thoughts would prove very wrong.

“Gather ‘round, Ladies ‘n Gents, . . . please, gather ‘round . . . ‘n make sure your glasses are full,” Francis O’Hanlan beckoned everyone to come forward. He caught sight of his wife, glassy eyed and leaning heavily on their son for support, standing at the edge of the crowd.

Florence and Grace Hansen, along with other members of the Ladies’ Guild, dutifully circulated through the throng of wedding guests, now gathering about the cake, carrying trays of punch cups filled to the brim with the former’s special pink recipe.

“Ladies ‘n Gents, attention!” Francis called for order. “Attention, if y’ please!”

Gradually, the chattering faded to silence, as all eyes turned expectantly toward Francis O’Hanlan.

“First, Hoss Cartwright will toast Apollo and his new bride, m’ daughter, Colleen,” Francis announced. “After we drink to t’ health of Apollo ‘n Colleen, Adam Cartwright will give t’ toast for Matt ‘n Clarissa. Once we’ve drunk to THEIR health, both couples’ll cut this monster of a weddin’ cake.”

Hoss stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m not much for pretty speeches ‘n all, ‘specially when I’m asked to do this all of a sudden, but here goes.” He raised his glass. “To Apollo ‘n Colleen, I’m pretty danged sure I speak f’r everyone here in wishin’ you both health, prosperity, good luck, a lotta happiness, an’ many, many years together t’ enjoy it all. Cheers!”

Hoss touched his punch cup to the newly wed Nikolases, then turned and clinked cups with Francis, then Molly.

“Big Brother, for a man who’s not much for pretty words, you do very well,” Adam complimented Hoss with a proud smile, as they touched glasses.

“Thank you, Adam. That’s high praise comin’ from YOU . . . . ”

 

Joe, Stacy, and Hop Sing raised their glasses in the general direction of Apollo and Colleen. Ben stood unmoving, punch cup in hand, his eyes glued to the cake.

“Mister Cartwright?” Hop Sing with increasing uneasiness scrutinized the pale, stricken face of his employer and old friend.

Ben started, nearly spilling the contents of the cup in hand.

“Hop Sing sorry for scaring Number One Boss of the Ponderosa,” Hop Sing murmured softly, as his own concern for Ben’s well being deepened. “Is Mister Cartwright sick?”

Ben shook his head. “N-no, Hop Sing, I’m fine, honest ‘n truly, I’m just fine,” he babbled. “I was just lost in thought, that’s all . . . . ”

“Whoa!” Stacy gasped, after taking a generous gulp from the pink liquid in her cup. “What’s IN this punch?”

“I dunno, but Hop Sing, I sure hope you can get the recipe,” Joe drained his cup, then licked his lips appreciatively. “This is without a doubt the best punch I’ve EVER had.”

Hop Sing, glared at the cup in his hand with open suspicion, then raised it to his nose and sniffed.

“What’s the matter, Hop Sing?” Ben queried, noting the grimace on the Chinese man’s face.

Hop Sing very gingerly brought the edge of the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. “Holy smoke!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with shocked astonishment. “Take pink stuff easy, Little Joe. This punch pack OWN punch!”

 

After everyone drank a toast to Colleen and Apollo Nikolas, Adam stepped forward, cued by a nod from Francis O’Hanlan.

“My big brother here’s going to be a hard act to follow, but I’ll do my best,” Adam said in all sincerity. He raised his glass. “Matt and Clarissa, I, and I’m pretty sure everyone gathered around the cake right now, wish you both a long life together full of good health, luck, and prosperity. I also add a paraphrase from Mister Charles Dickens . . . ‘may you both be happy in the life you have chosen.’ ” Smiling, he touched his glass to Matt’s and Clarissa’s, then to Sally Tyler’s.

“ . . . and now, Folks, ‘tis time t’ cut the cake!” Francis announced.

The two couples moved up to the cake, and taking the knife in hand, made the first slice.

“SURPRISE!” Three scantily clad young women gleefully shouted as they leapt out from within, sending large chunks of cake and icing flying in all directions.

“ . . . uuuuhhh Lordy!” Hoss groaned, as a large glob of cake, generously heaped with icing flew past his face and smacked Myrna O’Hanlan upside the head. He searched for his father amid the sea of faces, all displaying the entire spectrum of human emotion, as they watched the three women emerge from the cake. Hoss found him, standing at the back edge of the crowd, almost directly facing him. Ben’s pale face, eyes round with a kind of fatalistic resignation, almost certainly had to be a mirror image of his own.

Meanwhile, the tallest of the three women stepped forward. She had red hair the color of a sunset at its most brilliant, luminous green eyes, and a dazzling, brilliant smile. She wore a strapless green sequined corset and matching panties that enhanced the color of her eyes. Both corset and panties were made of silk and trimmed with black lace. Her shoes, high heel laced in the front with a bow, had been dyed to match the color of the silk used to make her corset and panties. For contrast, she wore dark green stockings. “Now who’s the lucky bachelor--- ”

Her brilliant, dazzling smile quickly evaporated upon catching sight of the wedding guests present. The vast majority stood unmoving, as if suddenly deep-frozen stiff. She slowly turned her head, and glancing over her shoulder, caught sight of Colleen Nikolas in her wedding gown, staring back with a bemused expression on her face.

“Hey! What IS this?! I thought this was s’posed to be a BACHELOR party!?” one of the other girls exclaimed. She had chestnut brown curls, and a scarlet face that clashed with her pink sequined corset, trimmed in black, and matching pink silk panties.

“Looks like we’ve, ummm . . . arrived a little late for the, uhh . . . b-bachelor party?” the tall red head observed with a tremulous smile that never came close to reaching her eyes.

 

“Hot diggity---! Now THAT’S what I call a wedding cake!” Joe declared, grinning from ear to ear, completely oblivious to his father’s ever increasing discomfort. “I’m gonna mosey on over there and get a closer look. Pa . . . Stacy . . . you wanna come along?”

“No thanks, Grandpa,” Stacy declined. “The sight of three woman in their underwear doesn’t do a whole lot for me, I’m afraid . . . . ”

Ben merely sighed and gazed longingly up toward the heavens, praying fervently that the earth to open up and provide a nice, deep hole into which he could crawl.

 

A low guttural growl rose from the depths of Myrna O’Hanlan’s throat as she attempted to scrape the enormous, sticky wad of cake and icing from the left side of her face and head. Two large globs oozed through her fingers and plopped down onto her bodice, drawing forth a strange hybrid cross between a woebegone moan and an angry high-pitched scream.

The strangled, bestial cries issuing from his mother’s throat and mouth turned Frankie’s blood to ice. “M-Ma?” he stammered, looking on helplessly.

After long moments of grunting, growling, snarling, and the utterance of a string of obscenities, whose exact pronunciations were thankfully lost under the influence of Florence Hansen’s pink punch, Myrna O’Hanlan finally managed to scrape most of the gooey mass onto the floor. Several enormous roughly circular shaped grease stains, caused by the liberal amounts of lard folded into the icing, appeared on her bodice and skirt. Cake and icing remained in her dark hair, and her left cheek and fingers were sticky. “Uuuggh! Whosh reshponsible for dish . . . for dish ow’rage?” she sputtered angrily.

“I think it came from over there.” Frankie pointed in the direction of the three girls who had come out of the cake. The trio stood huddled together, talking, casting the occasional furtive glance at the assembled guests, and shrugging.

Myrna stood for a long moment, her body wavering as she struggled to maintain balance, staring with rude intensity at the three girls standing next to the cake. “Who’re they?” she demanded in a loud voice. “ ‘N what’re they doin’ runnin’ ‘roun’ in dere unnerwear?!”

“I-I dunno, Ma,” Frankie said. He gingerly took his mother by the arm, and tried to pull her in the direction of the nearest empty chair. “Why don’t you come on over here ‘n sit down . . . . ”

“NO!” Myrna whipped her arm from her son’s grasp. The sudden move sent her reeling backward. She waggled her arms vigorously in a desperate attempt to remain on her feet, shrieking like a banshee all the while. Her valiant efforts, however, were all in vain. She stepped backwards into a mound of icing. Before she could even begin to realize what was happening, both feet slipped out from under her. She toppled to the floor and landed with a loud, sickening thud on her rump. “Fraaaang-gie, help yer poor ol’ mama up!” she groaned, extending her hand.

There was a sprinkling of soft titters from among the crowd gathered, and a loud, horrified gasp from Clara Mudgely.

Frankie, his cheeks flushed crimson, obediently knelt down beside his mother, carefully avoiding eye contact with the people standing next to them. With his help, Myrna rose ungracefully to her feet. Her body wavered again, then stabilized.

“Oohhh, laugh at ME will dey? We’ll sshhh . . . we’ll. SSSS-SEE. who getsh da las’ laugh!” Myrna muttered under her breath. She leaned over, her entire body weaving precariously, and scraped a sticky handful of confection from the floor.

An apprehensive, bewildered frown creased Frankie’s brow. “Ma? W-what’re ya doing?”

Myrna circled her arm around, half a dozen times very fast, then released the sticky glop in her hand. It missed its intended target, the tall redhead who had come out of the cake, by the proverbial wide mile, and hit Francis O’Hanlan full in the face.

 

“Wow! Adam . . . Hoss . . . didja see THAT?!” Joe guffawed. “POW!” He smacked his right palm with his left fist. “Right in the ol’ kisser! . . . and here I thought Mrs. O’Hanlan couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from three feet away.”

“Mrs. O’Hanlan wasn’t aiming for her husband, Little Brother,” Adam observed with a wry smile. “I’m fairly certain she was aiming for THAT young lady . . . over there.” He inclined his head in the general direction of the red haired woman, clad in the green corset and panties.

“Oh yeah? How do you figure, Adam?” Joe asked.

“Well, taking into account Mrs. O’Hanlan’s position--- ”

“Ugh!” Francis O’Hanlan snorted, as he scraped cake and icing from his face with his bare hands. “WHAT F**KING EEJIT’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS OUTRAGE?!” he angrily demanded, shaking the sticky excess onto the floor.

“ . . . uuhhh, LORDY!” Hoss moaned softly. He slowly turned his back on the O’Hanlans, the cake, and the three lovely young women who had jumped out of the cake . . . and buried his face hands. His acute distress immediately drew the attention of his brothers.

“Hoss?” Adam queried, as he and Joe flanked their biggest brother on either side. “Hoss . . . are you alright?”

Hoss responded with an agonized groan.

“Heatstroke!” Joe said. “Adam, it’s gotta be heatstroke.”

“I think you’re right,” Adam agreed, as his golden brown eyes took in the beads of sweat dotting Hoss’ brow, and the bright red complexion visible beyond the space of his hands. “It IS awfully warm down here . . . . ”

“ . . . and I thought I overheard someone say that’s what’s wrong with Mrs. O’Hanlan,” Joe added.

 

Colleen, meanwhile, gazed from one parent to the other through eyes round with astonishment. “Pa?” she ventured hesitantly, as her father tried to wipe the cake and icing from his hair. “Pa . . . y-you’re not going to believe this . . . . ”

“Try me, Pumpkin.”

“It was MA!”

“ . . . uhhh . . . what, exactly was your ma?” Francis asked, as he turned and favored his eldest daughter with a bewildered frown.

“Ma was the one who threw . . . that,” Colleen replied, pointing to the sticky goop lying on the floor at her father’s feet.

“WHAT?!”

“God’s honest truth!” Colleen said earnestly. “I wouldn’t have believed it either, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

A slow, devilish smile spread across Francis O’Hanlan’s lips.

“ . . . uhhhh . . . Pa?!” Colleen queried, faintly alarmed.

“So your ma wants t’ get frisky, eh? Ohhh-kaaa-aaayyy . . . I’LL give her frisky . . . . ” With that, Francis turned and grabbed a generous hunk of cake that had landed on the punch and cookie table when the three girls jumped out.

Myrna O’Hanlan suddenly found herself staring straight into her husband’s face, with that determined smile and impish bedevilment gleaming in his eyes with the same intensity of a roaring fire. “Franssshhh . . . uuhh, Fran-Sis . . . what’re ya doin’?”

“Givin’ a whole new meanin’ to the idea o’ sweet revenge, M’ Dear!”

“Hey, Molly . . . . ” Joe sidled up to the youngest of the O’Hanlan offspring, with full punch cup in hand. She stood at near the front of the crowd gathered, behind her mother and brother, Frankie. “What’s going on with your ma and pa?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea!” Molly said with a shrug.

Frankie turned at the sound of his sister’s and Joe Cartwright’s voices. “I think Ma’s drunk!” he said, taking great pains to keep his voice low.

“I am not DRUNK!” Myrna declared with an indignant stamp of her foot. She turned her full attention back to her husband just in time to see him pull back to throw the glob of cake, and mostly icing. She let out an ear-piercing scream, and dove for the floor in the exact same instant the wad of cake left Francis’ hand. The gooey missile ended up striking Joe Cartwright square in the face.

Molly gasped, and involuntarily took a step backward.

Three long strides brought Adam to his youngest brother’s side in seconds. “Joe?” he queried anxiously.

Joe, in response, blew away the portion of cake covering his mouth.

“Joe, are you alright?”

“Fine, Adam . . . hey! Not bad,” Joe declared with a grin, after sampling a clump of icing that had oozed from his face down onto his shirt. “You know what this MEANS, don’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, no! I don’t!” Adam replied, warily noting the impish twinkle that had suddenly appeared in his youngest brother’s eyes. “I may hate myself for asking, but . . . what DOES this mean?”

“CAKE FIGHT!” Joe shouted with gleeful abandon. He bent down and scooped up a handful of cake and icing from the floor, and, as he straightened, began to pack it as he might a snowball.

Adam clamped a restraining hand on Joe’s left arm. “ . . . and just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m defending my honor!”

“Put it down, Little Brother,” Adam ordered sternly.

“WHAT?!”

“I SAID . . . put it down.” Adam seized Joe’s wrist and shook the gooey mass from his hand.

“Hey! What did you do THAT for?”

“Your own protection.”

“My PROTECTION?!” Joe echoed, looking over at his eldest brother with a look of complete and utter disbelief.

“You get involved in ANOTHER fracas so soon after what happened last night, Pa’s gonna nail your hide to the barn wall for sure,” Adam said.

Joe looked over at his oldest brother in surprise. “How’d YOU know about THAT?”

“I’ve overheard snatches of gossip here and there,” Adam said glaring at his brother suspiciously. “I’ve not been able to get the WHOLE story because people clam up the minute they see me, but I’ve sure heard enough to at least figure out there was some kind of uproar last night, and that YOU and our young sister were in it clear up to your armpits.”

“If you’re about to threaten me with making mention of what you’ve overheard to Pa, Oldest Brother, you might as well save your breath,” Joe said with a smug grin. “Pa knows all about last night.”

“Everything?” Adam demanded, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Everything,” Joe affirmed.

Another errant piece of cake flew across the room from a battle that had escalated to include both grooms, and two of the girls who had jumped out of the cake, in addition to Francis and Myrna O’Hanlan. This one struck Adam upside his head, with force sufficient to knock him right off his feet. He hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud, and remained, lying flat on his back with arms and legs splayed in all directions.

“A-Adam?!” Joe queried anxiously. He knelt down alongside his oldest brother, then learned over and peered into his face. “Adam . . . y-you alright?”

“I’m. Fine.” Adam replied through clenched teeth.

With a look of withering disdain, he deftly, and with a flourish, removed his handkerchief from his coat pocket and shook it out. He, then, mopped the mess of cake and icing from his face and hair, as best he could.

“This can only mean one thing,” Adam said.

“Oh yeah?” Joe queried, not quite knowing what to expect. “What?”

“CAKE FIGHT!” Adam shouted as he barreled headlong toward the melee.

“RIGHT BEHIND YA, OLDEST BROTHER OF MINE!” Joe cried with glee, as he followed close to Adam’s heels.

 

“Mick, whaddya doin’?!”

Mick O’Flynn glanced up sharply from his place on the short stool next to Matilda, and found Macon Fitzhugh standing beside him, glaring balefully down from lofty heights. “I can’t talk t’ ya NOW, Macon,” he said crossly. “I’ve got Matilda hard at work cookin’ up a great big emergency order, ‘n I’ve got t’--- ”

“Dang it! That blamed fool contraption o’ yours is makin’ one helluva racket! Y’ gotta make her work quiet!” Macon rudely cut Mick off. “Folks is already starin’, Mick . . . ‘n if’n any one of ‘em takes a notion t’ start askin’ t’ good reverend questions what may end up bein’ embarrassin’ as all get out for you ‘n me . . . . ” His voice trailed away to an ominous silence.

“Half ‘n hour, Macon. At t’ very most . . . I’ll have that emergency batch whipped out in half ‘n hour,” Mick pleaded. “But, Matilda, here’s, gotta keep right on puttin’ out.”

“I ain’t so sure that’s a real good idea . . . . ” Macon murmured softly, “ ‘cause last time she started makin’ all them funny kinds o’ sounds? She blew sky high!”

“THAT was Sweet Betsy,” Mick declared, “ ‘n she COULD be a real temperamental ol’ battle axe, bless her heart, may she rest in peace! But Matilda here . . . . ” He leaned over and patted the top of his still affectionately. “When I built Matilda, I fixed t’ things that ended up leadin’ t’ Sweet Betsy’s tragic demise.”

“Then why’s she makin’ all them funny noises?”

“Macon, Macon, Macon . . . y’ worry too much,” Mick chided his friend with a doleful shake of his head. “Matilda WON’T blow, ‘n t’ make sure? I’m gonna stay put right here so’s I can keep a real close eye on ‘er.”

“Well . . . ok, I s’pose,” Macon reluctantly gave in. “Y’ DID say half an hour?”

“That’s right, Macon . . . half ‘n hour! No more . . . no less!” Mick affirmed with a mirthless grin. “Now b’fore ya run off, would ya mind telling me what time it is?”

Macon reached into his pocket for his own watch. “Hey! M’ watch’s gone . . . an’ so’s m’ wallet.”

 

“My goodness! Folks sure are thirsty!” Florence Hansen murmured softly, just under her breath, as she finished refilling the punch bowls for the fifth time.

“Well! It would appear that my timing is most impeccable, if I do say so myself.”

Florence looked up and saw Reverend Hildebrandt leaning against the door jam. “Yes,” she said smiling and duly noting his gaze fixed longingly on the punch bowl, filled nearly to the brim, “I’ve just finished making it up, Reverend. May I get you a glass?”

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “That would be wonderful.”

Florence removed a tall, clean glass from one of the overhead cabinets, and filled it. “Here you are,” she murmured, as she carefully placed the glass into his outstretched hands.

“Mrs. Hansen . . . . ”

She heard the apprehension in his voice loud and clear. “Oh dear . . . is there something wrong with the punch?”

“No, Ma’am, quite the contrary! The punch is delicious,” Daniel Hildebrandt said very quickly. “I just happened to notice that your lovely pearl necklace seems to be missing.”

Florence smiled, relieved. “The clasp came loose, so rather than risk losing it altogether, I took it off and put it in my pocket.”

“That’s a relief.” Daniel Hildebrandt raised the glass to his lips and took a generous swallow. “I overhead a some of the men out there complaining of missing watches and wallets, and I wanted to be sure your necklace was safe.”

“Thank you for your concern, Reverend, but rest assured it’s safe and sound right here.” Florence patted the deep pocket on the right side of her long, full skirt. Suddenly, the color drained from her face.

“Mrs. Hansen? Are you alright?”

“I . . . I thought sure, I . . . . ” Florence murmured as her fingers desperately roamed the inside of her pocket in search of the double strand pearl necklace. “I’m almost positive . . . . ”

“Mrs. Hansen?”

Florence looked up at the clergyman, her eyes round with shock, and lower lip trembling. “Reverend Hildebrandt . . . my necklace is g-gone!”

“Shall I get Sheriff Coffee?”

“I-I suppose you should . . . I guess, if . . . if h-he’s up for it,” Florence murmured, her voice breaking. “He w-was stricken with . . . with heat stroke, too . . . along with poor Mrs. O’Hanlan, bless her heart! Oh dear! I-I’m so sorry . . . here I am on the verge of . . . of bawling my eyes out like some silly school girl.”

“You’re certainly entitled, Mrs. Hansen. That necklace is not only valuable in terms of money, but, as I recall, you told me it belonged to your mother?” Daniel reached into the inside pocket of his coat for a handkerchief.

Florence nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She did look up, however, upon hearing a sudden, sharp intake of breath. “R-Reverend Hildebrandt?”

“My prayer book!” he whispered, his eyes wide with shocked indignation. “It’s GONE!”

 

“My wallet! I thought sure, I . . . . ”

“I know sure as anything I put two dollars in my handbag this morning. Now they’re GONE!”

“I had that bag o’ gold dust right here in my coat pocket . . . right here! I know I did!”

“Harlan Hurley, WHAT are you doing?”

“Don’t pop your corset, Sis,” Harlan Hurley said in as bland a tone as he could manage.

“That’s DAVID’S jacket!”

“ ‘Fraid not, Cass! Classic case o’ mistaken identity.”

“The name is CassSANDRA!” the girl stated indignantly.

“Well pardon me, CassSANDRA!” Harlan retorted. “In any case, THIS jacket is DAVID’S . . . . ” he pointed to the one he held in his hand by the collar. “That one there on the chair next to Pa’s is MINE.”

“You going’ somewhere?”

Harlan carefully placed the jacket in hand down on the chair, taking the other in exchange. “Yeah,” he said evasively.

“Where?”

“None of your business.”

Cassandra Hurley eyed her older brother suspiciously. “You’re goin’ off with that Pruella Danvers creature, aren’t you?”

“That’s none o’ your business, either, Cassandra,” Harlan said stiffly, “and I’ll thank you NOT to refer to her in that way.”

“Pa’s NOT gonna be happy . . . . ”

“I don’t give a da--- ” Harlan broke off quickly. He had learned much to his dismay earlier on in the week that he was definitely NOT too old, at the venerable age of nineteen going on twenty, for his mother to wash his mouth out with soap. “I don’t care whether Pa’s gonna be happy or not! Pruella’s bored with watching people getting drunk and throwing cake at each other, and frankly, so am I. You can tell Pa ‘n Ma I’ll see ‘em at home later.”

“How MUCH later?”

“Just later!” Harlan snapped, as he tossed the other jacket over his shoulder. He turned heel and stormed off, before she could question him further.

 

“Dadburn it! My wallet’s missin’!” Hoss declared with a scowl.

“Blake Wilson and a few others are missing THEIR wallets, too,” Ben said grimly. “It would appear The Robber Baron of Virginia City’s been hard at work while the rest us have been having a good time, letting our guards down.”

“Pa, what about my envelope?” Stacy asked anxiously. “The one I gave you for safe keeping?”

Ben quickly checked the inside pocket of his jacket. The envelope was still there, nestled deep. “It’s still safe, Stacy,” he quickly reassured her, “and I still seem to have my wallet.”

“Where’s Sheriff Coffee?” Hoss asked. “I hate like all mixin’ business with what oughtta be pleasure, but . . . . ”

“I know how you feel, Son,” Ben said quietly, “but you DO need to tell Roy about your wallet, and sooner rather than later.”

“He’s over there talking with Mister and Mrs. Hurley, Big Brother,” Stacy discreetly pointed in Sheriff Coffee’s general direction. “But from the looks of things, I think you’re gonna have to stand in line.”

Hoss and Ben made their way across the room toward Sheriff Coffee and the cluster of irate citizens circled around him. Stacy followed behind her father and brother at a slower pace.

“Alright, Everybody, jus’ simmer down a minute!”

“SIMMER DOWN?!” Blake Wilson shouted indignantly. “Roy Coffee, that gol’ durn pick pocket’s probably half way t’ Mexico by now with MY wallet--- ”

“Not t’ mention my WATCH, Sheriff,” Macon Fitzhugh growled.

“ . . . an’ MY watch!”

“ . . . . an’ YOU’RE tellin’ US t’ SIMMER DOWN?” That was Sam, the bartender.

“I can’t make heads nor tails outta nothin’ with the lot o’ ya all talkin’ at once,” Roy said sternly. “Now one at a time! Blake, we’ll start with YOU.”

“My wallet’s gone!” Blake said. “At first I thought maybe I’d just left it home . . . I been a mite forgetful with all the weddin’ doin’s . . . . ”

“He did NOT leave it at home, Roy!” Erma Wilson stated with an emphatic nod of her head. “I stood there and watched him put that wallet in his back pocket before we left to come to the church.”

“Blake, when didja notice that your wallet wasn’t in your back pocket?” Roy asked.

Blake frowned. “I ain’t rightly sure,” he said thoughtfully.

“Well I know for fact when MY watch ‘n wallet disappeared!” Macon Fitzhugh said. “It was right after I had that run in with Harley Hurlen, only it wasn’t HIM! He said he was ‘is brother.”

“David?” Blake asked.

“Yeah!”

“I didn’t realize my pearl necklace was missin’ until just now,” Florence Hansen said sadly, “but I remember havin’ a run in with David Hurley myself, early on.”

“So did I,” Blake said, “an’ now that Mrs. Hansen here mentions it, I saw him run right smack dab into three other people, before he up ‘n bumped into ME.”

David Hurley, standing at the edge of the crowd flanked on either side by his parents, vigorously shook his head. “No!” he stated emphatically. “No! It wasn’t ME! I swear . . . it wasn’t me!”

“He was wearin’ a blue jacket,” one of the other men said. “There it is! It’s on that chair over next to the wall!”

“That’s my jacket, but I didn’t steal anything!” David stoutly maintained his innocence.

“You mind if we have a look at your jacket, David?” Roy asked. “You don’t have to, now . . . . ”

“Go ahead!” David readily gave permission. “If it’ll prove me innocent, then please! Go ahead!”

David Hurley watched, his eyes round with shocked horror and dismay, as Sheriff Coffee removed wallets, watches, rings, small bottles and flasks filled to varying levels with bootleg whiskey, and a myriad of other objects stolen from people during the wedding reception. There was also a small, pocket sized, leather bound Bible-Prayer Book that belonged to Reverend Hildebrandt. Roy piled the stolen items on the table next to the near-empty punch bowl.

“No! No! This can’t be, it CAN’T!” David protested, shaking his head in utter disbelief. “I didn’t take ANY of that stuff, I swear I didn’t!”

“Wouldja care to explain how it came to be in the pockets o’ YOUR jacket?” Roy asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I-I don’t know . . . . ” David vigorously shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. All I DO know is that I didn’t take any of that stuff!”

Stacy spotted Harlan Hurley standing on the opposite side of the circle, with one arm languidly draped around Pruella Danvers’ shoulders, and a jacket over his free arm the same color blue as the one in Roy Coffee’s possession. Harlan watched the proceedings with a smug cat-that-ate-the-cream smile on his face, while his twin brother, David, looked on helplessly as the sheriff pulled a double strand pearl necklace, belonging to Florence Hansen from the inside pocket. Stacy noted that the latter twin’s face was a deathly pale and his eyes were unusually bright. Her eyes darted around the room, as the beginnings of an idea took shape in her mind.

She quickly scanned the faces in the gathering crowd, searching for Lotus and Timmy O’Toole. She spotted them standing at the edge of the gathered crowd, next to the stairs leading up out of the basement.

“I could be in a world of trouble for this,” Stacy mused grimly, as she elbowed her way through the crowd, toward Lotus and Timmy, “but better that than let an innocent man go to jail.”

“Looks like Sheriff Coffee’s caught Virginia’s City Robber Baron,” Lotus remarked to Stacy, as the latter approached.

“Yes, it would seem so,” Stacy replied.

“Between you and me, I don’t think he’s the one,” Lotus said in a low voice.

“I think you’re right,” Stacy agreed, “and I know how to prove it.” She knelt down, bringing herself eye to eye with Lotus’ young son. “Timmy,” she said, “I need to ask a big favor of you . . . . ”

“What is it, Stacy?” the boy asked.

“I need to borrow your cap gun.”

“Sure,” Timmy immediately handed Stacy his toy with a bemused grin on his face.

“Stacy Cartwright, what kind of mischief are you up to now?” Lotus queried, as memory of the Cartwright daughter’s activities at the Silver Dollar surfaced with a vengeance to the forefront of her thoughts.

“I think I might like to know the answer to that one myself,” a wry masculine voice, originating directly behind her, said.

Stacy slowly, almost reluctantly turned and glanced over her shoulder. There, she saw her older brother Adam, covered from head to toe with cake and icing, his arms folded across his chest, glowering. “I’m going to prevent an innocent man from going to jail,” she said. “I can use your help on this, Oldest Brother, seeing as how you and I are the only ones who can positively identify the thief.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting . . . . ”

Stacy nodded.

“Pa will have BOTH of our hides!”

“You have any OTHER ideas?”

“ ‘Fraid not,” Adam said with a fatalistic shrug. “Let’s go.”

“Sheriff Coffee, please!” David begged, his voice breaking. “I . . . I honestly don’t know WHERE that stuff came from.”

“I know where it came from,” a young heckler among the gathered crowd said derisively. “It all came outta YOUR coat pocket.” A smattering of mirthless chuckles and titters rose among the people surrounding him.

“Sheriff Coffee, this is all a very big mistake,” Jack Hurley insisted.

“Yeah, Mister Hurley . . . and your son made it!”

Jack leveled a withering glare at the young boy who had just spoken. “Roy, you said all these thefts’ve been goin’ on for the last couple o’ months,” he said. “Am I right?”

“Yeah . . . that’s true,” Roy agreed.

“Well, THIS is the first time David’s been to town since before last Christmas.”

“SURE it is, Mister Hurley!” Millicent Adams, daughter of the Seth Adams, president of the Municipal Bank in Virginia City, said, not bothering to conceal her insolence and disdain.

“Now you see here, Gal,” Jack sternly admonished Millicent. “I can overlook a few things seein’ as how you ain’t been taught proper manners, but I don’t cotton to anybody . . . man, woman, or child . . . callin’ me a liar.”

“ . . . and I don’t take very kindly to any man, woman, or child saying that MY daughter is lacking in proper etiquette,” Hannah Adams returned in a deep booming voice that carried across the entire room.

“Well, Lady . . . if the shoe FITS--- ” Athena growled. The effects of all the pink punch she had imbibed had begun to wear off, leaving her with an upset stomach and the worst head it had ever been her misfortune to suffer in her entire life.

“I hardly think the mother of a . . . a known criminal, or the father either, for that matter has any right to criticize MY daughter for a mere breech in etiquette!” Hannah sputtered, angry and indignant.

“My son is NOT a criminal!” Athena stubbornly maintained.

“Mrs. Adams . . . ‘n you, too, Mrs. Hurley . . . I’ll thank y’ both to stay out of this,” Roy reprimanded the two women sternly.

 

Stacy, meanwhile, caught sight of Harlan Hurley and Pruella Danvers edging their way over toward the basement stairs. “Come on, Adam, we’ve got to stop him,” she said.

“Hey! He looks just like . . . . ”

“Yep,” Stacy replied.

“Identical twins?”

Stacy nodded.

“Let’s get ‘im, Little Sister,” Adam said, his eyes glittering with pure malice. “It’s despicable the way he’s running off and leaving his brother to take his punishment.”

“You’ve got THAT right, Oldest Brother,” Stacy agreed.

“I also owe that guy big time for these shiners.”

 

Stacy and Adam beat a straight path through the crowd of wedding guests still gathering around Sheriff Coffee and the Hurleys, on an intercept course with the departing Harlan Hurley and Pruella Danvers. Stacy went to great lengths to keep Timmy’s cap gun concealed within the folds of her skirt.

“Going somewhere?” Stacy asked, as she and Adam planted themselves right smack in the middle of Harlan and Pruella’s path.

“ . . . and what business is it of YOURS?” Pruella demanded imperiously.

“To be perfectly honest, it’s none of MY business at all,” Stacy readily admitted, “but, it’s very much SHERIFF COFFEE’S business.”

“Look, Stacy . . . and whoever YOU are, Pruella and I are in bit of a hurry,” Harlan said, making an attempt to be halfway reasonable.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Adam retorted in a wry tone of voice.

“Stacy Cartwright, if you don’t move aside right now, so help me I’ll move you aside,” Pruella angrily threatened.

“Oh yeah? What a coincidence! Adam and I are in a bit of a hurry, too,” Stacy countered, as she whipped Timmy’s cap gun out from under the folds of her skirt and leveled it at the pair standing before her.

“Are y-you crazy?” Harlan gasped, taking an involuntary step backward. He looked up at Adam, who stood behind Stacy, to her right. “Hey, Mister, whoever YOU are . . . . ”

“I’m her oldest brother, Adam,” Ben Cartwright’s firstborn politely introduced himself, “pleased to make your acquaintance.” He favored Harlan with a ferocious, predatory smile and offered his hand.

Harlan paled and took another involuntary step backward.

“Alright . . . the both of ya . . . start walking . . . over there . . . .” Stacy inclined her head to the spot where the sheriff stood arguing with Jack and Athena Hurley, with the hapless David looking on.

“ . . . with your hands up were we can see them,” Adam added.

Harlan wavered.

“Harlan, surely you’re not--- ” Pruella protested.

“Pruella . . . she’s got a GUN,” Harlan gulped, as he fearfully raised his hands high over his head.

“She does, indeed,” Adam said, “now move.”

An exasperated sigh exploded from between Pruella’s thinned lips as she raised her hands up over her head, and fell in step beside Harlan. They began making their way across the room toward the sheriff, with Stacy and Adam following close at their heels.

 

“Sheriff Coffee, Adam and I can positively identify the thief,” Stacy announced, as she, Adam, Harlan, and Pruella stepped into the midst of the gathered crowd. She still had Timmy O’Toole’s cap gun trained on Harlan.

Roy Coffee glanced from the Hurley twins, to their parent, then back again to Adam and Stacy. “Mrs. Hurley . . . . ?”

Jack subjected Harlan to such intense scrutiny, the young man visibly flinched and averted his eyes to the floor. “Adam . . . Stacy . . . you two SURE you can identify the real thief?”

“We’re certain, Jack,” Adam said quietly.

“Alright, then . . . do whatcha gotta,” Jack grimly assented.

“Adam . . . Stacy . . . surely y-you ain’t--- ” Roy protested, upon seeing the feral gleam in both their eyes.

“Sheriff Coffee, we can’t let an innocent man go to jail,” Stacy said.

“However, if you have a better idea as to how we can unmask the thief, I’m all ears,” Adam added.

Roy sighed. “Can’t say as I do,” he admitted, shaking his head in complete and utter disbelief. “Ok . . . go ahead ‘n do what y’ gotta do. It’s YOUR funeral.”

“Alright, Gentlemen,” Adam began, as he turned and faced the Hurley twins with a withering glare, “and with regard to ONE of you, I use that term very loosely. Now I want you both to turn and face the table behind you. My sister here’s a crack shot with an itchy trigger finger, so I’d advise you not to try anything stupid.”

Harlan and David exchanged puzzled glances, then warily looked back at Adam and Stacy.

“You heard my brother,” Stacy said with a wild predatory grin on her face.

The Hurley Brothers paled in the face of Stacy’s ferociousness. Keeping their hands high, they immediately turned toward the table.

“OK, Gentlemen, drop your guns,” Adam ordered.

Harlan and David very slowly unbuckled their gun belts and allowed them to drop to the floor. Their uncle, Apollo, quickly moved in and retrieved the gun belts and weapons from the floor, and turned the weapons over to Sheriff Coffee.

“OK, Gentlemen . . . now drop your PANTS,” Adam ordered with relish.

“Excuse me?” Harlan questioned the order insolently.

“You heard the man,” Roy growled. “Do as he says!”

The twins complied.

Camilla Taylor, the wife one of Virginia City’s most prominent citizens and pillar of the church, let out an audible moan and fainted right into the arms of Reverend Hildebrandt. Ben rolled his eyes heavenward, beseeching the Lord above for something, he wasn’t quite sure what. Joe and Molly collapsed into the nearest chairs, and dissolved into a fit of the giggles.

“There!” Stacy pointed to the man with the heart shaped tattoo in his backside. “That’s your man, Sheriff Coffee,” she said.

“Yep,” Adam agreed. “That’s definitely him! I’d know that tattoo anywhere.”

Pruella’s face first turned bright shade of red, then darkened to an odd shade of purple. She opened her mouth and screamed. “HARLAN HURLEY, HOW . . . HOW COULD YOU!?”

“Harlan Hurley . . . Pruella Danvers, you’re both under arrest.”

“ME?!” Pruella shrieked. “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING--- ”

Ben moved in quickly. Taking his youngest and eldest by the forearms, he adroitly ushered them as far from the maddening crowd, as was possible given the confines of the church basement. “Adam . . . Stacy, was that really necessary?” he growled sotto voce.

“Pa, it was the only way we could positively identify the thief,” Stacy said. “We couldn’t very well let David Hurley do time for a crime he didn’t commit, now, could we?”

“No, I suppose not,” Ben reluctantly agreed.

“ . . . and besides that, I owed the guy big time for giving me these shiners,” Adam added with bloodthirsty relish.

I see,” Ben said stiffly. “Stacy . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa?”

“I thought you and Joe told me there were no more surprises.”

“I’m afraid this was as much as a surprise for ME as it was for everyone else,” Stacy replied. “I had no idea in the world The Robber Baron of Virginia City was gonna strike here at the reception.”

Ben turned and glared at his oldest son, who was still grinning broadly. “With half the decent people thoroughly outraged by your method of positively identifying the real thief, and the other half passed out cold from the shock, what are YOU so happy about?”

Adam immediately sobered under the raw intensity of his father’s dark, angry glare. “Pa, I’ve just taught Harlan Hurley a very valuable lesson. I sincerely hope he takes it to heart.”

“Oh? What lesson is THAT?”

“Pay backs are pure hell!”

Ben sighed. “You’d better let me have that gun,” he turned to Stacy, and held out his hand. “I’m almost afraid to ask this, but who did you borrow it from?”

“Timmy O’Toole,” Stacy replied. “It’s a cap gun.”

Ben looked at the gun closely, as saw at once that it was indeed a toy cap gun. “You mean . . . you actually buffaloed those two . . . . ” He shook his head, and finally laughed. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, you never fail to amaze me . . . . ”

“Attitude, Mister Cartwright.” It was Molly, with Joe coming up right behind her. “It’s not how big and how powerful you are, or even what kind of gun you carry. It’s attitude!”

“ . . . and I can certainly vouch for the fact that Stacy here has enough attitude for ten people,” Joe quipped.

 

“Pruella Estelle Danvers, I have NEVER . . . not in the whole of my entire life . . . EVER . . . been so . . . so . . . HUMILIATED!” Myra Danvers followed behind her daughter, castigating the girl severely, as Clem Foster led her and Harlan Hurley toward the basement steps in handcuffs. “Honestly! I don’t know WHICH is the MOST embarrassing . . . whether it be YOU carrying on a . . . a . . . LOVE AFFAIR . . . with a notorious thief, and BRAGGING about it--- ”

“Mother, in the first place, Harlan and I were NOT . . . I repeat, WERE NOT, carrying on a love affair!” Pruella grimaced, as if she had just tasted something incredibly sour. “ . . . and in the SECOND place, I didn’t KNOW he was stealing the money he used to buy me gifts. I honest and truly DIDN’T! So how could I possibly BRAG about such a thing?!”

“Oohh . . . don’t you DARE play Little Miss Innocent with ME, Young Lady! I saw you shamelessly flaunting all that expensive jewelry . . . and all those OTHER fine gifts that thieving scoundrel gave you . . . every chance you got!” Myra immediately shot right back.

“I TOLD you . . . I didn’t know he was stealing money to buy all those things!” Pruella argued.

“What about him having YOUR name tattooed inside a big red heart along with his . . . on . . . on . . . on h-his--- ” Myra abruptly broke off with an exasperated sigh. “I can’t even bring myself to say it!”

“Pruella . . . I did it for YOU,” Harlan passionately declared. “I did everything for you . . . everything! . . . because I love you! I love you more than I’ve EVER loved anyONE or anyTHING on this earth.”

“You forgot to mention one thing, Young Man!” Myra said, her voice filled with scathing contempt. “Thanks to you, MY DAUGHTER has been ARRESTED . . . and . . . and she’s going to be put into jail. Oh the ignominy of it all! What did I EVER do to deserve THIS?!”

“YOU??!” Pruella shrieked, as she turned for a moment and stared back at her mother in complete and utter disbelief.

“Pruella . . . Darling, please . . . I only wanted you to notice me, ‘s all . . . . ” Harlan blithely rambled on, “and I know how much you like fine things, like . . . like flowers from florist shop . . . fine jewelry . . . sweet perfume, and . . . and . . . other things like that. I thought, if I could buy them and give them to you as gifts . . . . ” He sighed dolefully, and shook his head. “Only problem was . . . I couldn’t even BEGIN to afford ANY of those things, so . . . so THAT’S why I . . . I--- ”

“Harlan . . . would you puh-leeeze . . . shut-UP?!” Pruella groaned.

“Mrs. Danvers.”

Half way up the basement stairs, Myra froze.

“I’d like a word with you . . . . ”

She turned and found the Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt standing at the bottom of the stems, with his back poker straight and his arms folded tightly across his chest. His dark eyebrows were drawn together into a single line, and three irregular shaped splotches of bright red stood out in livid contrast against the unusual paleness of his cheeks and forehead. “Reverend Hildebrandt, my daughter--- ”

“NOW, Mrs. Danvers.”

“Reverend Hildebrandt, my daughter has been arrested!” Myra wailed, shocked and outraged. “I’ve got to go to her.”

“This can’t wait,” Daniel Hildebrandt snapped, glaring metaphorical daggers.

“Ooohhh . . . alright! But make it brief!” Myra ordered in a tone of voice insultingly condescending. “I HAVE to go to my daughter.” She seized hold of the railing, then started back down the stairs.

“We’ll talk outside,” Daniel said curtly, as he started up.

 

Stacy sighed and shook her head, as she watched Clem take Harlan and Pruella away, with Myra Danvers dogging their footsteps. “I never thought I’d hear myself actually say this, but . . . I sure feel sorry for poor Pruella,” she said.

“That makes TWO of us, Kiddo,” Joe observed. “I mean, here she is . . . FINALLY getting a taste of just desserts for the mean, cruel ways she’s always treated you . . . and a lot of other people . . . and YOU feel sorry for her?!”

“I can’t help being curious about that myself, Young Woman,” Ben had to admit.

“Don’t get me wrong . . . there IS a part of me that’s feeling, well . . . pretty victorious right now,” Stacy confessed. “On the OTHER hand, I can’t help BUT feel sorry for someone facing a hard choice between pleading guilty and going to prison or going home with a mother like Mrs. Danvers.” She grimaced.

“I . . . see what you mean,” Joe murmured softly, as he watched Myra Danvers’ melodramatic histrionics. Under a set of wholly different circumstances, he would, more than likely, find himself rolling on the floor, laughing himself silly at the woman’s exaggerated, ‘way over-the-top prostrations.

“Joseph Francis Cartwright!” Ben exclaimed upon noticing gooey blobs of cake and icing all over his youngest son’s clothing and in his hair. “Just . . . well, just look at you!”

“ . . . uh, Pa? Have you taken a real close look at ADAM lately?” Joe asked, grinning form ear-to-ear with a smug, Cheshire cat kind of grin.

“Adam?!” Ben echoed incredulously.

“Yes . . . ADAM!”

Ben frowned. “Surely you’re not suggesting . . . . ”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Joe said with a smile.

“Come ON, Joseph! Adam?! Involve himself in a cake fight?? NEVER!” Ben stated emphatically. “Oh sure! YOU’D get yourself involved in a cake fight . . . that much is quite obvious! Stacy . . . . ” he looked over at his daughter, then at Timmy O’Toole’s cap gun, she still held in hand. “I wouldn’t dare put it past her!” he grumbled. “As for Hoss . . . the answer is no, because he’d rather EAT the cake! But Adam . . . NEVER!”

A string of terse, clipped syllables, carrying the distinct singsong character of Chinese assailed their ears. Ben glanced up, and saw his firstborn and Hop Sing making their way across the room.

“Mister Adam suit big mess!” Hop Sing rebuked the eldest of the Cartwright offspring severely. His broken English was liberally interspersed with colorful Chinese invectives. “Real big, big, big, big MESS! Hop Sing never get out cake and icing! Never! Not in ten million, billion, jillion . . . not in many, many years!”

“Hop Sing, I swear . . . it was SELF DEFENSE,” Adam protested. “Honest!”

Ben’s eyes went round with shock, astonishment, and complete, utter disbelief upon catching sight of his eldest son’s clothing and hair plastered even more generously with cake and icing, than the same of his youngest son. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m beginning to think I can’t take ANY of you children someplace nice,” he lamented.

Joe and Adam exchanged glances of pure, ornery bedevilment. “Why not?” the latter said with a shrug. “I don’t see how we can possibly get into any more trouble than we’re in now.”

Joe nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing, Oldest Brother.”

“What?” Ben demanded, not liking the wild gleam he saw in the eyes of his eldest and youngest sons, when they turned to face him.

“Nothing, Pa, we just want to show you how very much we love you, that’s all . . . . ” Joe said with an endearing smile that was at complete odds with the feral gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Adam agreed, as he and his baby brother converged on their father.

Ben desperately tried to escape, but all too quickly found himself trapped between the punch table and his sons, Adam and Joe, advancing on him, with open arms. Both simultaneously caught Ben up in a great big bear hug, pressing close, and smearing the thick silver mane of hair generously with pound cake and icing.

“I have to say one thing for you guys,” Stacy laughed uproariously. “You sure look good in what you eat.”

“Baby Brother, I am shocked . . . nay! I am APPALLED!” Adam declared. “Absolutely appalled!”

“So tell me, Oldest Brother . . . WHY, pray tell, are you absolutely appalled?” Joe asked, as he and Adam released Ben from their “loving” embrace, and turned in unison to face their sister.

“Why do I kinda have this sick feeling I already know why?” Stacy murmured softly, as she took a step backward, then another.

“Well, I’LL bite, Adam,” Joe said, as they slowly, relentlessly advanced toward Stacy. “Why are you appalled?”

“Here we are . . . showering all this love and affection on Pa, and leaving our poor little sister completely out in the cold,” Adam cheerfully explained. “Now I ask you . . . is it right or fair for us to show Pa how much we love HIM, without showing our little sister how very much we love HER?”

“That’s alright, Guys,” Stacy said. “That’s perfectly alright! You won’t hurt my feelings in the least, believe me!”

“No, Little Sister, it’s NOT alright,” Joe said. “Is it, Adam?”

“Certainly not!”

“Uhh . . . Pa?” Stacy squeaked, as she turned, hoping against hope that she might appeal to her father.

“Don’t look at ME, Young Woman,” Ben quipped with an amused grin.

“Alright . . . you’re gonna have to CATCH me first,” Stacy grimly vowed. She pivoted, and barely ran a half dozen steps before her foot caught in the hem of her gown bringing her down face first into what remained of the wedding cake.

“Stacy?” Joe queried, alarmed.

Stacy slowly raised herself up on her elbows. Cake and icing covered her face, neck, and clung to the front of her in huge clumps.

“You alright, Little Sister?” Adam asked, as he and Joe knelt down on either side of her.

Stacy wiped the cake and icing from her face as best as she could with hands that were also smeared with cake. “I could use a clean handkerchief,” she said in a wry tone.

Adam, with a deft flick of the wrist, removed the relatively clean handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to his sister.

Stacy took the handkerchief from Adam and wiped her face. “You were right about one thing, Joe,” she said smiling. “This cake IS delicious!”

“Now ain’t the lot o’ you jus’ pitiful!”

Joe, Stacy, and Adam glanced up and saw Hoss towering over them, his arms folded across his chest, shaking his head.

“Dadburned pitiful! The whole lot o’ ya!” Hoss admonished his siblings as they rose to their feet. “Adam, you especially oughtta be ashamed o’ yourself.”

“Me?!” Adam growled. “Why me?”

“ ‘Cause YOU’RE the oldest,” Hoss replied with a scowl. “What kind o’ dadblamed example are ya settin’ for the two babies o’ the family by gittin’ yourself involved in a cake fight?”

“Hey, Big Brother, who do you think you’re calling babies?” Joe demanded with a scowl as he, Stacy, and Adam rose to their feet and started advancing on their biggest brother.

“I’m callin’ YOU an’ our BABY sister babies,” Hoss said firmly. “If ‘n the pair o’ you’re gonna act like babies, then I’m callin’ a spade a spade.”

“Hoss, there’s only one thing we can say to that,” Adam said contritely.

“What’s that?” Hoss demanded, eyeing his oldest brother with a puzzled frown.

“You’re absolutely right,” Adam said, as he and the two youngest Cartwright children edged closer. “I AM setting an atrociously poor example for my impressionable baby brother and baby sister.”

“Yeah, Hoss, like Adam said, you’re absolutely right in pointing out how childish Stacy and I are acting,” Joe continued. His eyes sparkled with mischievous merriment.

“Getting involved in that cake fight was very childish on our part,” Stacy agreed.

“Now just one dadburned minute!” Hoss said severely, all the while backing away from his irrepressible siblings. “How come the lot o’ you are agreein’ with me?”

“Because you’re right, Big Brother,” Stacy said with a feral grin.

“Absolutely,” Joe agreed. “We appreciate you showing us the error of our ways.”

“That tells us that you love and care about us very much,” Adam said, “and WE want to show you how very much we love you, too, Big Brother.”

The three continued their advance with open arms.

“I love the lot o’ you, too,” Hoss said, throwing up his arms defensively in front of him, “but, I’m beginnin’ t’ think all this doggoned touchy-feely stuff ain’t necessarily a good thing.”

“Now, Hoss, I disagree completely,” Ben said, maneuvering himself behind his second son, effectively blocking off any further retreat. “I happen to be of the opinion that there’s no such thing as too much showing of affection.”

Hoss turned, and grimaced upon seeing his father’s white hair liberally laced with chocolate cake and his gray suit covered with cake and white icing.

“Group hug,” Joe cried, as he, Adam, and Stacy simultaneously converged on Hoss with open arms.

Hoss felt his father’s arms reaching from behind to circle his chest, while his brothers and sister enthusiastically embraced him head on.

“Isn’t it nice to know just how much you’re loved, Big Brother?” Stacy queried, favoring Hoss with a warm smile.

“I don’t know about the rest of YOU, but it sure gives ME a nice warm feeling inside,” Joe said, giving his biggest brother an extra bear hug for good measure.

“THAT’S IT! I QUIT!” An outraged Hop sing bellowed at the top of his voice. He glared murderously at each of the Cartwrights, beginning with Ben and ending up with Stacy. “ALL THIS LOVE MAKE TOO MUCH LAUNDRY! I QUIT!”

 

Meanwhile, Myra Danvers, wordlessly fell in behind Reverend Hildebrandt upon reaching the top of the basement stairs. She dutifully followed him through the church narthex and on out through the front door.

“Mrs. Danvers . . . . ” Daniel said through clenched teeth, as he turned to face her, “ . . . WHAT in the world were you and your so-called Ladies Guild thinking of?”

“I . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Myra replied with a bewildered frown and a helpless shrug. “Thinking . . . thinking of WHAT?”

“First of all, two-thirds . . . TWO-THIRDS, mind you . . . of the wedding guests are . . . are . . . are . . . well, to put it very bluntly . . . they’re falling down drunk,” Daniel began, as the angry red splotches on his cheeks and forehead deepened from a brilliant red to a port wine hue, and began to spread over his entire face.

“Reverend Hildebrandt, THAT is IMPOSSIBLE!” Myra declared, righteously indignant. “When Mister and Mrs. O’Hanlan met with me to arrange for their daughter’s wedding and the reception, I made it perfectly clear that the consumption of alcoholic beverages is NOT allowed either within the church or on church property. They assured me that they would abide by that ruling!”

“Oh they DID, did they?” Daniel queried. “Well for YOUR information, Mrs. Danvers . . . Mrs. O’Hanlan’s the worst of the lot!”

“Mrs. O’Hanlan is NOT drunk!” Myra hotly denied the allegation. “I was told that the poor woman is suffering from a terrible bout of heatstroke!”

“She is DRUNK!” Daniel stubbornly maintained. “Then there’s the matter of that wedding cake and . . . and the three indecently exposed la---WOMEN! who seem to have come WITH the cake.”

“I did NOT order that cake!”

“If YOU didn’t order the wedding cake, Mrs. Danvers . . . I want to know who DID!”

“I placed the order for the wedding cake, Reverend Hildebrandt! But I did NOT order that monstrosity downstairs . . . NOR did I order the . . . the . . . thosenakedwomen . . . . ” Bright patches of red immediately blossomed on her cheeks, her neck, and her forehead, “that were baked inside.”

“ . . . and THAT brings me to the matter of The Robber Baron of Virginia City!”

“Pardon me, Folks, please . . . pardon me.” Mick O’Flynn’s partner and protégé squeezed in between the combatants, lifting his hat and making eye contact with the clergy man first, then the President of the Ladies’ Guild. A man, big and tall enough to dwarf the like of Hoss Cartwright, followed. He had a full head of thick dark brown wavy hair, a full beard, and a single thick, bushy line over top both eyes and his nose.

“Just one minute, Young Man!” Daniel yelled as he turned with every intention of pursuing the pair. He sprinted ahead of the pair, then turned and planted himself square in the middle of their path. “Just where do the two of you think you’re going?!”

Barney immediately seized the clergyman’s hand and began to pump it up and down, up and down. “Reverend Hildebrandt! So good t’ see ya . . . good to see ya! Long time no see!” The words gushed forth from his mouth and lips like water through a sluice gate, when the dam is opened. “So good t’ see ya again, Reverend, REAL good seein’ ya . . . real good . . . . ”

The exuberant handshake literally rattled Daniel Hildebrandt’s teeth and nearly knocked him right off his feet.

“Good t’ see ya, ‘tis real, real good t’ see ya . . . . ”

“You’ve already said so . . . ad nauseaum!” Daniel said, as he snatched his hand from Barney’s firm grip. The momentum sent him careening into Myra Danvers, knocking both of them to the ground.

“Sorry, Mister Good Reverend Sir,” Barney apologized contritely. “Here, lemme help ya up!”

“Keep your hands OFF me!” Daniel growled. “I am perfectly capable of helping myself up, thank you so very much.” He rose to his feet slowly, his entire body trembling with rage.

“ . . . uuhh, R-Reverend Hildebrandt . . . I could use a h-hand up,” Myra murmured extending her hand.

“Boris help lady,” the big man grunted, his words heavily accented. He leaned over and seized her by the waist. The fingertips and thumbs of his massive, well-muscled hands were almost touching. He lifted her with the ease of a little girl lifting a rag doll and set her carefully on her feet.

For a moment, Myra remained glued to the spot where Boris had placed her, staring up at the big man’s face through eyes round with shock and astonishment. Her mouth and jaw worked and moved, but no sound came forth.

Boris immediately turned his attention back to Barney. “Boris see O’Flynn, want vod---”

“Yessir, right away, Sir!” Barney stammered, effectively cutting Boris off mid-syllable. He took the big man’s arm and started moving once more toward the front door of the church basement.

“Now you hold on right there!” Daniel ordered, as he set off after the pair, moving at a brisk place. “There happens to be a private party going on in--- ”

The clergyman’s words were swallowed up in a startled scream as Boris picked him up by the waist and set him aside. “Little man too noisy!” he grunted, as he and Barney continued on toward the door.

“Reverend Hildebrandt!” Myra Danvers suddenly, indignantly found her voice once again. “Surely you’re NOT going to allow that MAN to . . . to take that unkempt CREATURE!!!! . . . into the church?!”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to stop him!” Daniel replied acerbically. “In fact, I don’t think there’s much anything that can stop him . . . barring a dynamite blast, a runaway locomotive, or various and sundry other acts of God!”

 

“Hey, Mister O’Flynn . . . . ”

Mick O’Flynn glanced up sharply, and found Hoss Cartwright standing beside him, covered with cake from head to toe. He grinned. “Gotta say one thing f’r ya, Lad. Y’ sure look good in whatcha eat!”

“Thanks!” Hoss retorted wryly, then frowned. “Say, Miss Matilda there’s soundin’ mighty peculiar. She alright?”

“Fine, Lad. She’s just fine,” Mick replied with a complacent, beatific smile. “She’s just havin’ to work a mite harder ‘n usual, that’s all. Y’ see Boris the Russian’s gonna be here for his, um ‘vodka’ any minute now, and I’m tryin’ m’ best to brew up at least HALF a bucket ‘fore he gets here.”

“Y’ sure Matilda oughtta be smokin’ like that?”

“She’ll be fine, Young Fella, just fine.”

Hoss looked down at Matilda doubtfully, then sighed and shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Hoss, I need t’ bank t’ fire up just a wee bit more,” Mick said, gazing down into the bucket, positioned directly below the drip pipe, with dismay. It was barely a quarter of the way full. “There’s about half dozen sticks o’ wood over there behind me. Would y’ mind fetchin’ me a couple, maybe three? I can’t reach ‘em, an’ I daren’t take m’ eyes off Matilda.”

“Mister O’Flynn, I don’t know a dadburn thing about stills,” Hoss said, “but somethin’s telling me loud n’ clear that stokin’ up that fire under this one ain’t such a good idea.”

“She’ll be fine, I tell ya . . . she’ll be just fine as long as I’m right here keepin’ a real close eye on her.”

Hoss’ doubts intensified as Matilda’s grunts and chugs began to rise steadily in volume.

“Hoss, the wood?”

“ . . . uuhh, yeah, sure.” Acting against his own better judgment, Hoss stepped over behind Mick O’Flynn and picked up the half dozen sticks of wood. “Here y’ are, Mister O’Flynn. Where do ya want it?”

“Right here, Lad,” Mick pointed to the floor in front of him. “That way I can reach without takin’ m’ eyes offa Matilda.”

“Say . . . . ” Hoss’ eyes wandered over to the basement door, where he caught sight of Barney entering with the biggest, the widest, and the furriest mountain he had ever seen walk on two legs, “ . . . is THAT fella over there Boris the Russian?”

Mick slowly raised his head, his eyes reluctantly following the line of Hoss’ extended arm and pointing finger. He felt the blood drain from his face, as he nodded mutely.

“Wow! You sure weren’t lyin’ when ya said he was a real big fella,” Hoss observed, with a touch of awe. “I’ll bet he’s a whole head taller ‘n me, if he’s an inch.”

“TWO heads taller, THREE times as round, and about a hundred times meaner!” Mick muttered as he quickly added the pieces of wood, Hoss had just placed at his feet, to the fire steadily burning under Matilda.

Something . . . Hoss would never quite be able to put his finger on what exactly, but something in the sounds made by water boiling inside, immediately drew his attention away from the fast approaching Boris the Russian. “ . . . uuhhh . . . M-Mister O’Flynn!?”

“Make it quick, Lad, I’m real b-busy.”

“Are . . . are M-Matilda’s sides s’posed t’ be b-bulgin’ like that?”

Mick glanced up at the still, and saw, much to his horror, that not only were her sides bulging, but her top as well, and worse, the protuberance continued to expand at an alarming rate, straining at the seams and rivets holding Matilda together. “Holy J-Jesus, M-Mary, and J-J-Joseph,” he whispered, crossing himself rapidly. He rose from the stool slowly, with legs trembling and knees knocking, and took a step backward.

“M-Mister O’Flynn?” Hoss found himself instinctively backing away as well.

From somewhere deep inside the intrepid Matilda came a dull, ominous klu-THUNK, then nothing.

“LADIES ‘N GENTS!” Mick yelled at the top of his lungs. “GET OUTTA HERE! MATILDA’S GONNA BLOW!” Without further eloquence, he turned heel and bolted for the basement steps with surprising speed and agility given his age and his advanced arthritic condition.

No one else moved. A few stared at the fleeing Mick, bewildered and perplexed. Others shrugged and looked askance at one another, before resuming whatever they had been doing before Mick O’Flynn’s shouted warning.

“HEY! YOU FOLKS HEARD THE MAN!” Hoss shouted. “MOVE!!!” He immediately shoved Cassandra Hurley and two of her young friends ahead of him with one hand and seized Clara Mudgely by the wrist with the other.

“Hoss?! Hoss, what’s going on?” Apollo asked, peering anxiously into Hoss’ pale face.

“Mister O’Flynn’s still’s gonna blow!” Hoss said tersely.

“Apollo? What’s wrong?” Colleen demanded.

“Colleen, grab your ma and get her out of here,” Apollo said tersely, inclining his head toward his new mother-in-law, sitting over against the wall, with her chin nestled upon her ample bosom, snoring very loudly. “Mister O’Flynn’s still’s about to blow up!”

Colleen nodded grimly, then lifted her skirts and ran toward her slumbering mother. En route, she grabbed her father by the arm, and told him. Apollo, meanwhile, ushered the elderly Wren sisters in the direction of the stairs, while Hoss ran to fetch Lotus O’Toole and her young son, Timmy, both in earnest conversation with Sally Tyler and the newly wed Clarissa Wilson.

“Hey, Apollo, what’s going on?” It was Molly.

Apollo turned and found his new sister-in-law and Joe Cartwright, staring up at him with bewildered frowns. “Mister O’Flynn’s still’s about to blow up,” he said tersely.

Joe smiled. “Aww, come ON, Apollo,” he tittered. “A still? Here?? In the church?!? What kind of joke is THIS?”

“No joke, Joe. You see that contraption over there?” Apollo pointed.

“Yeah,” Joe replied. “It’s a woodstove. So what?”

“That contraption is NOT a woodstove . . . it’s a still masquerading as a wood stove,” Apollo said tersely, “ . . . and it’s about to blow itself to smithereens!”

Joe and Molly both watched with rapt, morbid fascination, through eyes round with horror, as the sides and top of the still continued to expand at an alarming rate. Then one of the rivets holding together the side seam, popped, followed by another, and yet another. “ . . . uhhh . . . Apollo?!” the former queried nervously, “y-you’re . . . you’re N-NOT joking, are you?!”

“Nope! You and Molly get yourselves out of here.”

“What about MA?” Molly wailed. “Last I saw she was over there . . . . ” she turned and thrust her arm and pointing finger towards the wall on the opposite side of the room “ . . . sound asleep. I don’t think she can make it out by herself.”

“Don’t worry about your Ma . . . Colleen’s fetching her. You g’won with Joe.”

“Molly? Apollo?!” It was the former’s older brother, Frankie. “What’s going on? Why’s everyone all of a sudden running around and screaming?”

“Come along, Frankie.” Molly grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him in between Joe and herself.

“Whu-uuuhhh---?! Hey! Quit shovin’!” Frankie protested.

“Frankie, don’t talk!” Joe sternly admonished the young man. “Don’t ask us a bunch of silly questions . . . just . . . MOVE!”

 

Ben watched, bemused and mystified, as people zigzagged around him and around each other, in their mad, frenzied rush toward the basement steps. “Adam?!” He reached out and snagged hold of his oldest son’s forearm, as he ran past in search of his wife and the rest of his family. “Adam! What in thunderation’s going on around here?!” he demanded.

“Hoss said there’s a still in here somewhere . . . that’s about to explode!” Adam replied

“ . . . a WHAT?!”

“It’s over there,” Adam said, pointing.

The puzzled frown on Ben’s face deepened. “That’s a woodstove!”

“No, it’s not,” Adam replied. “It’s a still!”

As Ben turned a sharp eye to the alleged still, bewilderment quickly transformed to dread, as he watched five rivets pop, one after the other in rapid succession along the top seam. “We’ve got to find the rest of the family,” he said, as fear in its turn, gave way to a fierce, grim determination.

“I saw Joe heading toward the basement steps with Molly O’Hanlan,” Adam said, “and Hoss just now ran into the kitchen to warn Mrs. Hansen and a couple of other ladies.”

“Mister Cartwright! Mister Adam!”

Ben and Adam both whirled in their tracks, coming face to face with Hop Sing.

“Still!” Hop Sing said tersely. “Belong to Mister O’Flynn. About ready to blow sky high! Gotta go outside! Right now!”

“I’ve got to find Teresa,” Adam said grimly.

“Mrs. Teresa outside,” Hop Sing replied. “Miss Stacy, too. Both tell Hop Sing Mister Cartwright and Mister Adam get five minutes. If not outside five minutes? Mrs. Teresa and Miss Stacy come back in, look for you.”

“What about Candy?” Ben asked.

“I’LL look for Candy, Pa,” Adam said. “YOU, however, had better go on out with Hop Sing, before that sister of mine DOES come running back in here to look for you.”

“Mister Candy already outside, too,” Hop Sing said, taking firm hold of Ben’s forearm, then Adam’s wrist. “Mister Candy help make line, for passing water buckets. Now you come, too, Mister Adam. Before Mrs. Teresa come in, look for YOU.”

 

Meanwhile, Reverend Hildebrandt and Myra Danvers were nearly overwhelmed and trampled under the surge of humanity now pouring out through the front door of the church. Erma Wilson and Florence Hansen, in their flight, bumped Myra, knocking her right off her feet. She fell off the small sheltered porch in front of the door, and landed flat on her back, in the flowerbed below, with arms and legs splayed. Daniel, acting purely on instinct, barely managed to step aside less than a second before Timmy O’Toole barreled out the door, with his mother and Sally Tyler following close at his heels.

“NOW what?!” Daniel groaned, as if most of the guests getting drunker than a surfeit of skunks DESPITE the church’s ban on spirits of a liquid nature . . . three women jumping out of the wedding cake nearly naked . . . the food fight, using the wedding cake itself as weapon of choice . . . the Robber Baron of Virginia City plying HIS dubious trade, and the means by which Mister Cartwright’s oldest and youngest exposed him . . . weren’t more than enough . . . .

“Sooo-ooo-oooo help me . . . so HELP me . . . I am going to get to the bottom of this . . . this insanity,” the clergyman adamantly vowed, as he abruptly turned heel and resolutely elbowed his way back inside the church.

 

Upon entering the narthex, Daniel, his face set with angry determination, valiantly fought against the mob of people surging up out of the stairwell towards the front door.

“Rev’rend?! Where y’ going?!”

Daniel glanced up and found Macon Fitzhugh standing before him, his face a sickly ashen gray color, his eyes wide and staring. “I am going to go back down stairs and find out just what the ‘Sam Hill’ is going on around here,” he replied in a stern tone of voice that brooked no argument.

“NO! YOU CAN’T!” Macon cried.

“I CAN and I WILL.”

“No! Rev’rend, please . . . you CAN’T go back down there!”

“ . . . and why NOT?”

Macon’s stance wavered, as other people wormed around him and rushed by. He seized hold of the minister’s arm and clung for dear life. “ ‘Cause . . . ‘cause she’s a gonna blow!”

“She?!” Daniel echoed, staring at the church caretaker, as if he had just lost every shred of sanity he had ever possessed.

“Matilda!” Macon said.

“M-Matilda??” Daniel echoed with a bewildered frown. “Who’s Matilda?”

“She ain’t a who . . . she’s a WHAT, Reverend,” Macon replied.

Daniel exhaled a short, exasperated sigh. “Alright, then . . . WHAT is Matilda?” he rephrased the question through clenched teeth.

“Matilda’s Mick O’Flynn’s still . . . ‘n she’s gonna blow any minute!”

“A still?!” Daniel echoed, as exasperation gave way to incredulity. “A still? Here?? In MY church?!”

“Rev’rend . . . we gotta get outta here . . . NOW!” Macon said, as he reached over and wrapped his gnarled fingers around the clergyman’s forearm.

Daniel easily pulled his arm free from Macon’s grasp. “Get out of my way, Mister Fitzhugh,” he ordered.

“Y’ CAN’T go down there!”

“Mister Fitzhugh, if you don’t get out of my way, so HELP me, I’ll MOVE you out of my way,” Daniel returned in a tone of voice low and menacing.

Macon literally threw up his hands, exasperated yet with an air of resignation. “Alright, Rev’rend! It’s YOUR funeral!”

Daniel gritted his teeth and plunged into the stairwell and the multitude still pouring upward toward the narthex.

Meanwhile, Myra Danvers picked herself up out of the flowerbed and followed the good reverend back inside the church. She chose the better part of valor by taking the circuitous route along the wall, rather than directly confronting that mob head on. When she had at last reached the basement door, she paused for a moment to catch her breath.

 

Daniel tore down the stairs, zigzagging his way in and around the people still filing upstairs. “Impossible!” he muttered under his breath, as he neatly sidestepped to avoid a collision with the Lennox brothers, Martin and Ezekiel, who between them, shouldered the burden of their elderly, infirmed father. “Absolutely impossible!”

“ . . . uhhh, Reverend Hildebrandt?!?” Martin ventured.

“I know!” Daniel snapped. “Mister O’Flynn’s still is about to explode!” He danced around the portly form of Seth Adams, president of the First Mercantile Bank of Virginia City, then took a flying leap over the last remaining three steps. The instant Daniel felt his feet striking the floor at the bottom of the steps, he plunged headlong into a thick, blinding cloud of black smoke.

“Reverend Hildebrandt?!” a voice spoke out of the darkness. It was Hoss Cartwright.

“Mister Cartwr---!” A violent coughing jag abruptly choked off the clergyman’s words.

“Come on! We gotta git outta here . . . right now!” Hoss took hold of Daniel’s forearm, and began to pull him in the direction of the stairs.

“ . . . still?!” Daniel croaked between bouts of coughing. “Where’s . . . still?”

“You referin’ t’ Mister O’Flynn’s still?”

“Still!” Daniel wheezed. “Where?”

“It’s in front o’ the fireplace,” Hoss replied. “You were probably told it was a wood stove.”

“Wuh-Wuh-Wood stove?!” Daniel echoed, shaken and feeling horribly confused.

“A woodstove?!” A female baritone voice boomed, angry and incredulous, from within the pall of smoke, that continued to ooze up from between the doomed Matilda’s cracking seems.

Hoss and Daniel both glanced up sharply, and saw Myra Danvers stepping down off the last step, into the basement. The way her mussed hair seemed to be standing out in all directions and the wild, staring look in her eyes put the former in mind of the Greek myths his older brother loved so well. It was the story of a woman by the name of Medusa.

“Yes . . . a woodstove, Mrs. Danvers. Ex . . . Explain THAT one, if y---!” Daniel was overtaken once again by a coughing jag, more violent and intense than the first.

Myra gasped, and as a result, she was doubled over by an intense round of coughing and hacking, before she could begin to speak, to defend herself.

“Come on, Ma’am . . . you, too!” Hoss reached out and grabbed hold of Myra’s wrist.

At the same time, Daniel gritted his teeth and pushed down against Hoss’ thumb with all his strength, eliciting a loud bellow of astonishment and outrage. He deftly slipped his arm out of Hoss’ grip, pivoted, and fled across the basement toward the fireplace and the still.

“C-C’mon, Mrs. Danvers,” Hoss wheezed, “let’s get YOU up stairs,”

“B-But, Reverend Hildebrandt--- ”

“Dang fool’s runnin’ over toward the still,” Hoss muttered. “Now you g’won . . . git outta here. I’LL fetch the rev’rend . . . . ” He had no sooner shoved Myra Danvers into the stairwell, when poor Matilda finally succumbed to the terrible pressures brought to bear upon her metal plated person. She exploded with a mighty roar, raining sparks, uncooked mash, rivets, and tin body parts over the entire length and breadth of the basement. Hoss darted back into the shelter of the stairwell just in the nick of time. One of the sparks fell into the poteen Mick O’Flynn had already distilled, igniting it.

A loud, earsplitting bellow arose from the depths of the basement, sounding not unlike a sick bull moose caught in the throes of rutting season. Myra screamed, then tore back up the stairs, half-running, half-falling. Hoss cautiously peered into the basement just in time to see the Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt emerge from the curtain of black smoke, running faster than a rabbit with a bobcat on its tail. He pushed his way past Hoss and Myra, and bolted back up the stairs, with the seat of his pants in flames.

Hoss emerged from the church basement less than a minute later to the sounds of Reverend Hildebrand screaming and of clanging bell, heralding the approach of the volunteer firefighters. He was relieved to find Hop Sing rolling the clergyman on the ground to smother his flaming britches.

“Hoss! Hoss, thank goodness!”

Hoss turned and found his father standing at his elbow, smiling with a mixture of gratitude and relief.

“What took ya so long, Boy?” Ben demanded as he led his biggest son away from the burning building.

“Tryin’ t’ git Rev’rend Hildebrandt ‘n Mrs. Danvers out,” Hoss replied, falling in step along side his father. “Sorry, Pa. I didn’t mean t’ worry ya, ‘specially over the likes o’ them two.”

“It’s alright, Son. You’re much too kind hearted a man to leave ANYONE behind in a burning building, including the likes of Reverend Hildebrandt and Mrs. Danvers.”

“Pa, what about the rest o’ our family?” Hoss queried anxiously.

“Everyone’s safe, Hoss . . . and very worried about YOU.”

“Hoss!” It was Roy Coffee. “Did everyone git out o’ there alright?”

“Mrs. Danvers, Reverend Hildebrandt, ‘n I were the last ones up.”

“The volunteers should be arrivin’ any minute now,” Roy said. “I don’t think there’s much chance o’ savin’ the church, but between them ‘n the water lines we got goin’ now . . . we’ll be able t’ keep anything ELSE around here from goin’ up.”

“THAT’S a mercy anyway,” Hoss observed, taking comfort in the thought that the folks living close to the church, more than likely, wouldn’t lose their home and everything else they owned to the fire consuming the church. “Is there anything I can do t’ help ya out?”

“I can sure use ya on the bucket brigade lines, Hoss,” Roy said gratefully.

Hoss nodded, then ran toward the end of the line inside the church. He paused at the door to grab two buckets of water that had been passed down from the well, then hurried back down the basement steps. Apollo Nikolas and Boris the Russian were already there, pouring bucket after bucket of water onto the flames.

“Glad t’ see ya, Hoss. Boris and I can sure use your help,” Apollo’s voice was hoarse from the smoke.

“Glad I c’n help,” Hoss said tersely, while passing the second bucket to Boris.

“Fire! Move there!” Boris pointed flames spreading to the punch table beside the door that lead upstairs to the sanctuary .

“I got it!” Hoss said as he emptied his bucket dousing the flames that had begun to consume one of Myrna O’Hanlan’s good Irish linen tablecloths.

The three men worked frantically to keep the flames confined to the corner from which they had erupted when Matilda the still blew up. Despite their best, most valiant efforts, the flames spread to the wooden chairs scattered through out the basement, and leapt up toward the wood ceiling overhead. The smoke, rising from the flames, began to slowly, relentlessly spread across the ceiling, obscuring it from sight.

Over the growing roar of the fire, Hoss heard the faint, yet unmistakable battle cry of the Virginia City Fire Brigade: “Come on . . . jump her lively, Boys!” echoing down the stairwell.

“APOLLO?! APOLLO!!” That was Colleen. “THE FIREMEN ARE HERE! GET YOUR ARSE UP HERE . . . NOW!!”

“HOSS! YOU, TOO! COME ON!”

“COMIN’, PA!” Hoss yelled back. He took Boris the Russian and Apollo Nikolas by the elbows and deftly steered them toward the door leading up and outside.

Within the next couple of hours, the volunteers from Liberty Hose Company No. 1 had the flames extinguished. The fire had consumed most of the wood tables and chairs in the basement, and a portion of the ceiling, which also formed the floor for the sanctuary above. The basement walls, so recently white washed for the wedding had been darkened to a dull slate gray by the smoke, and the sanctuary above also sustained smoke damage. The fire chief gratefully praised the efforts of the people on the bucket brigade, most notably Hoss Cartwright, Apollo Nikolas, and Boris the Russian.

Apollo Nikolas, his face blackened by smoke and his clothing wet and covered by soot, collected his new wife, Colleen. Her brilliant red hair hung loosely in wet clumps about her shoulders, and the skirt of her wedding gown was soaked and muddied from the full buckets she had passed during the time she was on the bucket brigade. Matt Wilson, his own hair mussed, his shirt open, missing three buttons and his tie, joined Apollo and Colleen with his new wife, Clarissa, her own appearance in a state similar to Colleen’s.

Adam Cartwright drove a buggy around to the back of the church, with Molly O’Hanlan and Sally Tyler flanking him on both sides. A large sign, with the words “Just Married!!” was attached firmly to the back. Adam jumped down, then turned to help Molly and Sally alight.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, your transportation awaits!” Adam announced with a broad grin. “You’ll be spending tonight at the International Hotel, on the house! Your breakfast tomorrow morning will also be compliments of the house!”

“Adam, this is . . . this is v-very generous!” Apollo murmured, completely taken aback. “I don’t quite know what to s-say . . . . ”

“This was none of MY doing, Apollo,” Adam said. “The hotel management decided that the very least they could do was contribute to the Wedding NIGHT of the Century.”

“How WONDERFUL!” Clarissa exclaimed, her eyes fixed on Matt.

Adam helped Clarissa climb into the waiting buggy, while Mister O’Hanlan came to assist his daughter, Colleen. Matt climbed in after his wife. Apollo took his place in the front seat beside Colleen, and took hold of the reins. The newly wed couples were sent off amid the rousing cheers of their guests and the firemen.

“Well, Adam, today’s been quite a day!”

Adam turned, and found his wife, Teresa standing at his elbow, with a weary smile on her face. “Yes. It certainly has!” he agreed wholeheartedly.

“Kind of makes last night seem dull by comparison!”

“What?”

“I said everything that’s happened TODAY makes last night pale by comparison,” Teresa repeated her words. She slipped her arm through Adam’s as they began to walk.

“Yes, I suppose a poetry reading WOULD seem dull by comparison.”

“Adam, I have a confession to make . . . . ”

“Oh?” All the worry he had felt the day before over the prospect of turning his wife loose on an unsuspecting Virginia City in the company of his youngest siblings returned a hundred fold.

“We, ummm . . . didn’t . . . go . . . to a poetry reading last night . . . exactly . . . . ” Teresa continued hesitantly, her eyes glued to his face.

“I was afraid you were going to eventually say that.”

“Oh?”

“Yes!” Adam replied as the icy heaviness he felt in the pit of his stomach began to lessen. A fatalistic calm began to steal over him like a pall. “During the reception, I overheard an occasional snippet of conversation here and there about some kind of wild foolishness going on at the Silver Dollar last night, that . . . some how . . . involved Joe and Stacy. I haven’t been able to get any details, however. Teresa . . . . ”

“Yes, Adam?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but . . . WHAT . . . exactly . . . DID you the three of you do last night?”

“Before I get started, I feel I must warn you . . . it’s a long story,” Teresa said. “A very long . . . very involved . . . and very complicated story!”

“In THAT case, why don’t you give me the highlights now and give me all the gory minutiae back at the house later on . . . after I’ve had a generous helping or two of Pa’s brandy,” Adam suggested.

“The good news is . . . we found the O’Hanlans’ music box,” Teresa began.

“That IS good news!” Adam exclaimed with a broad grin. “Pa said Molly and Frankie were devastated over the prospect of having lost it. Where was it?”

“THAT . . . brings me to the BAD news,” Teresa replied.

 

Ben, meanwhile, had wearily set about the task of gathering the rest of his family together. He found Joe in the company of Lotus O’Toole, romping about with her son, Timmy on his shoulders.

“Giddy-yap!” Timmy cried out with delight, his dark eyes shining.

Joe ‘pawed’ the ground with his left food and responded with an excellent imitation of Cochise’s whinny.

“Faster, Horse . . . faster!”

“Timmy?” Ben quietly addressed himself to the little boy riding upon the shoulders of his youngest son.

“Hi, Mister Cartwright!” Timmy greeted Ben enthusiastically with a big smile. “I gotta new horse!”

“So I see, Young Man,” Ben said, returning Timmy’s smile with a warm one of his own, “and he’s a very handsome horse, too.”

“I found him,” Timmy replied, “running wild right here in the church yard!”

“Just now?”

Timmy nodded his head vigorously.

“ . . . and you’ve got him saddle broke already?!” Ben exclaimed with comical mock incredulity.

“I sure do!” Timmy replied.

“Wow! That means you’re a better horseman than my boy, Joseph . . . wherever it is HE’S gotten off to . . . . ” Ben made a big show of searching the faces of the wet, bedraggled wedding guests who still remained.

“I haven’t seen Joe either,” Timmy said, eagerly playing along, “not since we all came out of the church.”

“Timmy, I . . . hate to put an end to your fun, but I’m afraid it’s time to take your horse home and stable him for the night,” Ben said, his voice filled with genuine regret.

“Can I come and help stable him?” Timmy asked.

“Not tonight,” Lotus said as she carefully lifted her son off of Joe’s shoulders. “It’s almost time for me to get YOU properly stabled for the night, Cowboy.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Timmy sighed. “Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Timmy?”

“You’ll make sure my horse gets plenty of oats and water?”

“I sure will,” Ben replied.

Timmy threw his arms around Ben’s knees and squeezed. “Thank you, Mister Cartwright.”

“Hmpf! You call that a hug?” Ben queried. “Since I’m going to take care of stabling your horse, Young Man, the very least you can do is reach up here and give me a proper hug . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir!” Timmy immediately responded and reached up his arms.

Ben gathered the boy up into his strong arms and lifted him up to his own eye level.

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright!” Timmy said, as he threw his arms around Ben’s neck and pressed close. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Ben replied. He gave Timmy a gentle, affectionate squeeze, then carefully set him back down on terra firma. “Lotus . . . . ” as he straightened his back, he turned his attention to the boy’s mother, “Timmy’s more than welcome to come out to the Ponderosa anytime to play with his horse . . . and truth to tell, this animal COULD do with a little exercise . . . . ” Chuckling softly, Ben reached over and patted Joe’s stomach.

“Hey! Come ON, Pa!” Joe cried out in mock outrage. He yanked his shirttails out from the confines of his pants and belt. “Now, you take a good look! A REAL good look!” he exhorted as he lifted the garment enough to expose his abdomen. “Y’ see THAT?! Flatter ‘n a pancake!”

“Gee, Grandpa . . . I didn’t know pancakes had love handles.” It was Stacy.

“Oh, hardy har har, Little Sister,” Joe growled back. The mischief sparkling in his eyes gave lie to the scowl on his face and his harsh tone of voice. “That was sooo-ooooo-oooo dang funny, I plumb forgot to laugh.”

Stacy responded by sticking out her tongue.

“Did you see THAT, Pa?!” Joe demanded. “I’m tellin’ ya, this KID has absolutely no respect at all for her elders. You’ve GOT to talk to her.”

“You’re absolutely right, Son,” Ben replied, with a curt nod of his head. “I’m going to talk to your sister right now.”

“YEEE-HA!” Joe whooped. “Little Sister, YOU are in for it now . . . big time!”

Stacy warily turned her attention to Ben, while silently, passionately vowing revenge most horrible against one Joseph Francis Cartwright in the event Pa decided to wind up this chat out in the barn. All thoughts of getting even vanished in an instant upon seeing the impish gleam in her father’s eyes, and the smile he valiantly labored to suppress.

“Hello, Stacy,” Ben said, allowing the smile to manifest. “We’ll be heading for home as soon as Hoss and Candy return from the livery stable with our horses and the buggy.”

Stacy and Lotus simultaneously burst into peals of uproarious laughter.

It took every ounce of strength and determination Joe possessed to maintain the straight face and withering glare. “Pa, I--- ” he broke off quickly, as the urge to laugh, growing steadily within by leaps and bounds, nearly overwhelmed his best intentions. He grimaced and bit down on his lower lip in a desperate attempt to stifle the impulse. “Pa, I thought you were gonna talk to that kid!” he said very quickly.

“I just did,” Ben replied, chuckling himself.

“Funny, Pa . . . fuuuhhhh-nee! NOW I see where YOUR DAUGHTER gets her warped sense of humor,” Joe growled, prompting a fresh peal of laughter from his sister and best friend. “ . . . as for YOU, Miss Lotus, you TRAITOR you, O’Toole . . . .” he continued, turning his attention from father to friend, “YOU’RE supposed to be on MY side!”

Lotus immediately responded by sticking out her tongue, eliciting a cry of surprise and delight from her young son.

Joe thumbed up his nose, then burst into gale after gale of rapid-fire laughter, drawing them all in.

“What so funny?!” Hop Sing demanded with a puzzled frown, as he rejoined his family.

“I didn’t know grown-ups could be so silly, Mister Hop Sing,” Timmy remarked in flawless Chinese, as his eyes moved from his mother’s face, to Mister Cartwright’s, then to Mister Joe and Miss Stacy.

“Timmy, I could tell you stories about silly grown-ups that would curdle your blood and freeze the very morrow in your veins,” Hop Sing replied back in Chinese.

“Does that mean scary?” Timmy queried, looking up at the Cartwright chief cook, bottle washer, and domestic despot.

“Yes,” Hop Sing replied, smiling. “That means VERY scary!”

“Oh boy!” Timmy cried out, in English this time, his dark eyes shining with anticipation. “When are you going to tell me those stories, Mister Hop Sing?”

“NOT tonight,” Lotus said, as her laughter began to subside. “It’s time for US to head home.”

“Already?” Timmy groaned.

“Yes, already!” Lotus said firmly.

“Lotus . . . I meant what I said about Timmy being welcome to come out to the Ponderosa any time,” Ben gently reminded her. “That goes for YOU, too.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright,” Lotus responded with a warm smile. “Perhaps after Adam and his family have left . . . . ”

“Lotus O’Toole, you’ve never stood on ceremony before and I’ll be hanged if I’m gonna let you start now,” Joe said sternly. “My pa just got through saying that you and Timmy are welcome any time. Period. Adam or NO Adam!”

“Yes, PAPA!” Lotus quipped with an impish grin.

“You know . . . you’re as bad as my sister over there--- ”

“I most certainly am NOT!” Lotus vigorously denied the allegation. She glared murderously at Joe for a moment, then smiled. “I should be WORSE than Stacy! A LOT worse! After all, I have a good ten years on her . . . . ”

Hop Sing groaned. “Holy . . . . ” A half dozen terse, clipped Chinese syllables followed. “Those two go on and on and on. Take all night, maybe all day tomorrow, too.”

“Speaking for myself, I’m glad to see there’s some things in this world that don’t change,” Ben said with a smile.

“We go home soon?”

Ben nodded. “Just as soon as Hoss and Candy return from the livery stable,” he replied. “That leaves Adam and Teresa unaccounted for. YOU haven’t seen them by any chance . . . have you?”

“When last time Hop Sing see Mister Adam . . . Mister Adam help new Mrs. Wilson get in buggy,” Hop Sing replied. “Mrs. Teresa there, too. Now . . . . ” he shrugged.

“JAIL!?”

“Uh oh. Sound like Mrs. Teresa tell Mister Adam what happen last night,” Hop Sing observed, with an anxious frown.

“JAIL?”

“NOW sound like Mrs. Teresa in ‘way up over head in whatever Little Joe mean when he say heap deep sheep dip,” Hop Sing lamented.

“I was just thinking that it’s a real good thing Teresa decided to tell him in a public place, surrounded by lots and lots of people!” Stacy said, her face mirroring the apprehension and concern in Hop Sing’s.

“Stacy, your fears are completely groundless,” Ben hastened to reassure his daughter. “Adam has a very fine sense of humor . . . something you’ll find out for yourself as you get to know him better.”

“YOU WERE ARRESTED FOR . . . WHAT?!”

“On SECOND thought, maybe we’d ought to get over there!” Ben said, setting off in the direction of Adam’s voice. Joe, Stacy, Hop Sing, and the O’Tooles followed close at his heels.

 

Ben found his eldest son and daughter-in-law behind the church, huddled close together, with their backs to him and the rest of the family. Adam stood . . . barely . . . on wobbling legs more unstable than homemade nitroglycerin, being hauled in a rickety buckboard, over a washboard road riddled with deep potholes. Had he not been leaning against the back wall of the church building, he would have more than likely taken a bad fall. He was doubled over, with his arms wrapped tight about his abdomen, and his entire body convulsed with a ferocious intensity, the like of which Ben had never seen. Adam also seemed to be having great difficulty breathing, judging from the hoarse, guttural snorting, that issued from his throat.

Teresa was bending over him, peering down into his face, with her arm wrapped about his shoulders.

“Pa? What’s wrong with Adam?” Stacy asked in a frightened whisper, as she, Joe, Hop Sing, and the O’Tooles gathered around the clan patriarch.

“Mister Adam look like . . . like . . . he d-dying!” Hop Sing observed, as he looked on with much fear and trembling.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hop Sing! Adam is NOT dying!” Ben growled, desperately hoping to convince himself as well as Hop Sing.

For a moment, Hop Sing favored his friend and employer a glare that questioned the nature and existence of the man’s grip on reality. “If Mister Adam not . . . not . . . you know . . . then what wrong with Mister Adam?!” he demanded.

“I don’t KNOW what’s wrong with Adam, but I DO know that he is NOT dying,” Ben replied. The ferocious scowl on his face and his disparaging tone of voice effectively discouraged any and all discussion to the contrary.

“ . . . uhhh, Pa?” Joe ventured hesitantly. “Don’t ya think . . . m-maybe . . . you, ummm oughtta g-g’won over and . . . find out what, exactly IS wrong with Adam?”

“That is precisely what I intend to do, Young Man,” Ben replied. He turned away from his youngest son, his daughter, Hop Sing, and the O’Tooles; then with back straight and shoulders back, he began walking toward his eldest son and daughter-in-law, anxious yet resolute. “I . . . I honest and truly thought, when the time came, that Adam would take Teresa’s confession of last night’s shenanigans a lot better than he apparently has . . . . ” he silently mused, with increasing fear and trepidation.

 

The first thing Ben noticed as he stepped in front of Adam and Teresa was that the odd noises issuing from his son’s throat so fast and furious a moment ago, had lessened noticeably in frequency and strength. “Is he . . . is . . . is Adam . . . going to be alright?” the clan patriarch asked, addressing himself to his daughter-in-law.

Teresa shrugged with helpless resignation. “I . . . I wish I knew,” she murmured softly, her own face pale and voice shaking.

Upon hearing his father’s voice, Adam lifted his head, and straightened his posture. “T-Teresa?! Pa?” he queried, as his between bouts of uproarious laughter. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “Are . . . are you two alright?! You l-look like you’ve . . . like you’ve s-s-seen . . . like y-you’ve j-just seen your own ghosts.”

For a long moment, Ben and Teresa stared down at him, open-mouthed, their eyes round with astonishment. “Sp-Speaking for m-myself, I . . . I’m f-fine,” the former stammered, the minute he found his voice. Wave upon wave of deep, profound relief began to wash over him leaving him feeling lightheaded and weak in the knees. “I . . . we . . . T-Teresa and I were . . . we were worried about ya, Boy . . . . ”

“Oh, P-Pa . . . . ” Adam wheezed, as he wiped the tears of mirth from his cheeks and eyes against the sleeve of his shirt, “y-you’re not going to believe . . . the . . . the wild tale Teresa just told me . . . . ”

“Oohhh, I don’t know, Adam . . . . ” Ben said, favoring his eldest with a tremulous smile. “Why don’t you try me?

 

The End  
January 2003  
Revised December 2007


End file.
